Razors and Thorns
by Ivory Enigma
Summary: 13 years ago Isabel married Nathaniel Turpin, the brother of a cruel Judge. When the tyrant killed his own brother, for the excuse of her flesh, she was forced to flee to America. But now she's back: her name is Violet Blackwell, and with the barber's help she will have her revenge. Todd/OC. Dark.
1. Chapter 1: Pious Vulture of the Law

**A/N: **

**Hello, beautiful people of this site! This is my first post on this website, and also my first Sweeney Todd FF. I've been writing this all down in a notebook for the past few months or so, and I finally decided to get an account for it. Please please please PLEASE review!**

**EDIT: I'm doing a quick revamp of the chapters so far, I compared the latest chapter and this first and was disappointed. So, I'm fixing them for your viewing pleasure! ^-^**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sweeney Todd in any way, the rights go to those individuals respectively.**

**.ivory.**

* * *

DEFINITION:

(a): Revenge _[ri-venj]:_ to exact punishment or expiation for a wrong on behalf of, especially in a resentful or vindictive spirit: She revenged her murdered husband

**Murder's out of tune,**  
**And sweet revenge grows harsh.**  
**~William Shakespeare, Othello  
_**

Chapter I: _Pious Vulture of the Law_

The rose was still young, the petals only just beginning to unfurl and reveal its scarlet core. Her mother would have been unhappy with her, always hated it when she plucked the flowers before they were ready. She didn't mind though, the scent always seemed sweeter when the plant was still so callow. The stem itself was a light green, pronged here and there with sharp and unforgiving thorns. Yet roses were her favorite, mostly for the ironic mix of beauty and menace.

Somewhere behind her there was a low thud; it sounded like the front door.

"Nate?" she called, her blue eyes fixed to the flower as she clipped another thorn. It was the final rose in the bunch, the others already arranged in a glass vase to her left. Footsteps echoed closer. She moved to snip another briar, eyes trained on the blade in her hand, "You are home early today, darling-"

A sharp pain bit into her thumb as the barb cut her skin, "ouch!"

Beads of life began to form around the tear, stinging annoyingly. Why is it she always seemed to hurt herself? Even with something as simple as a flower. A cold hand reached around to her wrist, wiping the blood away gently.

"You should really be more careful, Isabel."

The words were uttered low in her ear, almost intimately; it was certainly not her husband. Startled, she twisted uncomfortably close to the stranger, his presence looming over her like some sort of dark shadow. But it wasn't a stranger. Dark gray eyes stared down at her, large and hollow, as if they could see every wrong she'd ever committed. They made her sick.

"Oh, Richard," her voice caught, "I didn't know you were in, forgive me."Isabel backed up against the table, wanting only to make the gap between them larger. He didn't seem to notice. Nate's brother was tall, like him, broad shouldered with that irritating way of rubbing his nose when he was uncomfortable. But that was where all similarities between the two siblings stopped.

Richard was hard and cold, his dark brown hair combed neatly; dress clothes pressed and fitted tightly to his stalky frame. Nothing was out of place. With a nose that was long and hooked, he certainly wasn't handsome like his brother. He gave a small, twisting smile. Isabel was reminded of a snake. His person was so close she could feel his freezing breath billow around her face, accompanied by the unpleasant mix of mint leaves and something sour. Politely moving out of his reach, Isabel unfastened the cupboard above to withdraw a hand towel.

"You startled me." She said, wiping her hands slowly.

"No, no lovely lady; forgive me. I walked in unannounced." He said in his usual lazy drawl, it sent shivers up her spine; something about it made her uneasy. She tossed the towel aside, looking for something else to occupy her hands. Settling for rearranging the roses in their vase, Isabel ignored the sensation of his eyes on her back.

"…Improper for a gentleman." Richard continued his last thought, waiting for her to respond. It sounded like he hadn't moved, and she relaxed a little.

"A judge now, I hear. Congratulations are in order, Richard. Or should I say, Judge Turpin?" she couldn't keep the twinge of revulsion out of her voice.

He walked around to her side, so he could see her face, chuckling lowly. It was a sound that she had grown to hate; unlike Nate's warm, breathy laugh, Richard's snicker was simply to contradict. A sign of dominance.

"Quite right, Isabel," he was smiling, not bothering to hide the pride in his words, "but I have not changed all that much."

'I can guarantee that you have,' she thought to herself as she filled the vase with a few inches of clear water. Her clumsy hands shook with anxiety, causing a few drops of liquid to dribble down the side. Sighing, Isabel turned to pick up the towel, and noticed that the man was already holding it out to her expectantly. She took it gingerly, "Thank you, Richard."

Their skin brushed lightly as he handed it over, a faint look of disgust crossing her face. He must have seen it, because he took a sudden step forward and gripped her chin roughly, forcing her to look at him. Panic quickly overcame the loathing, sending her heart into a frenzy, and adrenaline dumping into her veins. He smiled at her fear and allowed his hand to trace down her jawline, his fingers snake-like as they traced her pale skin. "You're quite welcome, Mrs. Turpin."

* * *

"Let me go!"

Violet jerked awake, her heart thumping behind her lips, and her arms outstretched.

It took a moment before she realized she was back to reality, the air stirring around her lazily, wrapping her in comfort. Blessed solitude. Blessed silence. She breathed out slowly...

Nightmares, always the cursed nightmares that tortured her sleep, leaving her curled in a tight ball and drenched in sweat. They caused a tight fear that strangled her in her sleep, pressing down on her with surprising force that mixed memories with illusion. It was almost as if Richard had really been there, she could still feel the cold from his skin and the lust on his breath...

Violet pressed her head between her sweaty palms and squeezed her eyes shut. No tears came, she always thought it was pointless to cry, and promised herself she wouldn't do it ever again.

The door to her cabin burst open, "Ms. Blackwell! Are you alright?"

She didn't respond to the youthful voice at first, the alias still not making sense in her foggy mind. But after a moment, she dropped her hands from her temples and looked up. One of the young sailor boys stood in the doorway, his thick dark hair messy over his blue eyes and olive colored skin. He'd clearly only just tumbled out of bed, probably at the lady's startled cry. What was his name again? Cole?

"I-I'm fine," she stuttered, a bit flustered that she'd been discovered in such a weak state. "Please leave me be." He (Charlie?) was still bursting into a lady's bedchamber, even if it was aboard a ship. The thought seemed to cross his mind.

"Oh, sorry, Ms. Blackwell." His face turned a dark red as he looked towards the floor. He was a handsome boy, younger than Violet's age of 25; probably eighteen or so.

"Um… Well, we're coming into port soon, M'um. In the hour."

"London?" Violet asked, straightening up a bit at the word. It had been on everyone's tongue for the past two weeks. Whether it be in excitement or resentment; longing or boredom. None of the passengers had stopped talking about it. London London London.

"Yes, M'um." He broke into a wide grin, forgetting his embarrassment. She nodded, clearly dismissing the young sailor. He understood and shut the door behind him, leaving her in peace.

Violet swallowed as she threw back the thin blanket, the cold air immediately descending on her shivering body. She wondered briefly if the chilling sea air had been a contributing factor in her nightmare, disguising itself as Richard's bated breath.

She dressed in a traveling frock, allowing her long dark hair to spill down her shoulders in a curly disarray. She hadn't really tried to look nice in so long, after all, there was no one she wanted to impress. Violet left her small cabin and walked out to the deck, swaying slightly as boat tipped against the waves. She groaned, thankful this torture would end soon.

After the first week or so, she had decided she hated sailing. The air was always muggy and heavy, as if the ocean rose up from below to drift among the air. She was sick often, which only added to her bad mood. Oh yes, she couldn't wait to be back on solid ground.

Other passengers were already up and about, chatting to each other excitedly or staring out at the water's horizon. Sailors parted through the crowd discreetly, preparing to dock. Violet breathed in the clammy air and made her way to the side of the ship to squint at the landmass floating atop the water.  
It was still quite far off, but it was definitely getting closer by the moment. The long stretch of black land was barely visible through the foggy air. London, her beautiful terrible city, was only a short boat ride ahead of her...

Back to this sinful city; she couldn't remember how many years it had been since she left. Part of Violet knew that she shouldn't have come back, should have followed her mother's advice and stayed in America. But obedience had never been her forte. Knowing that Richard was somewhere here, free and breathing… put murderous thoughts in her mind. That disgusting sadistic man, who's only thought was to please himself and his wants. Indulgence. That was his simple excuse for murdering his own brother, her husband.

She'd come back with only one goal in mind; the only thing that could bring justice to Nate's death:

Judge Richard Turpin's demise...


	2. Chapter 2: Hole in the World

**A/N:**

**Hello you beautiful readers, you.  
Thank you so much for checking out my story, and reviewing the previous chapter!  
****Also, apologies if you get an email every time I update, because my internet spontaneously combusted every time I tried to add the second chapter, so I had to do it several times. Which probably made your inbox explode. D:**

**On with the show! :D**

**.Ivory.**

* * *

chapter ii:

A Hole in the World

The ship moved faster than Violet expected, the bow cutting through the cold water like a knife. The fog parted around the vessel, giving a more detailed sight to the city beyond. Tall black buildings rose up around the ship, their empty windows ominous; as if a thousand eyes were leaning over to watch the small ship enter the harbor.

Violet retreated back to her cabin to stuff her few belongings into a small shoulder bag before returning to the deck. Funny how everything she owned was reduced to a small haversack; fitting, she thought. The small handful of passengers rushed to the front of the ship, carrying her along with them.

"Men! Prepare the Diablo for docking!" a harsh, authoritative voice barked to the crew members. Ms. Blackwell smirked to herself as she donned her dress-coat; Diablo, what an amusing name for such a small boat. When she had boarded this tiny ship, she remembered hearing the whispers of complaints among the guests on board that the crew members were clumsy; and the captain a drunkard. But the voyage had been cheap, something Violet couldn't pass up.

As if to confirm her thoughts, the ship lurched to a violent stop against the side of the pier. Everyone aboard rocked to the side from the unexpected momentum, many of them cursing loudly. Violet gripped the wooden planking to steady herself, ignoring the wave of nausea that ran through her body.

"I'm going to be sick…" someone murmured behind her. She wrinkled her nose in disgust, anxious to get onto solid ground once more. Everyone else seemed to agree as they pushed to exit the Diablo, shoving past each other in the effort. She moved along with them, as restless as the rest.

Violet Blackwell didn't know what it would feel like once she returned to the land that had wronged her. Maybe some sort of wave of nostalgia or perhaps regret; but when her boot touched the stone dock, all she could acknowledge was a grim determination. It was sort of gratifying to know that she had left this place in fear; only to return willingly. Stepping unreservedly into her own personal circle of hell seemed like the only choice left; and it wasn't altogether an unpleasant feeling. A small smirk curved her lips. She couldn't remember the last time she'd smiled with such malice.

The crowd dispersed quickly, turning away without hesitation from the people they had spent the last two weeks of their lives with; she could relate. She'd never considered herself someone who suffered from claustrophobia, but the people she was now leaving behind had managed to change her mind.

It had been raining; the thick overcast sky told her that, as well as the muddy puddles that bespattered the uneven cobble stone road every few feet. The buildings surrounding her were made of a dark brick that had been assembled who knows how long ago. The corners were dark, hiding the whores, pick pockets, and the homeless riddled with disease. It was all very familiar.

She swayed slightly on the spot, "Be careful, Ms. Blackwell," a youthful voice called out from behind her. That young sailor from earlier was grinning at her, his blue eyes bright. "It'll take a while before you get your land legs back."

She nodded at him, "What is your name again?"

His grin widened, "Calvin," he answered, "well, see you around, Ms. Blackwell." He turned and jumped back aboard the Diablo to start unloading the supplies that it had carried all the way from New York.

She turned and started to make her way down the pier, only a few feet away from the gray water. Her mother used to take her on walks here; when the summer sun beat against their faces, and they could afford to toss copper pennies into the water as wishes. Those were happy memories that she'd repressed for such a long time. Happy memories. Although unwanted.

The ground tilted beneath her and she paused a moment to regain her balance. Why did walking in a straight line take so much effort?

Up ahead, she could see another vessel, much larger than the tiny boat she had been aboard. It had clearly been unloaded recently, barrels and crates were piled in a enormous load around the dock. Exhausted sailors were patting each other on the back and tossing large bundles of personal items on their backs; ready to leave for the night to a hot meal and a warm bed.

Many of them passed her as they searched for their way home, a few were still loitering on the stone pier. She approached two of them now, fully intending to walk right by them. One was a young boy, probably no older than Calvin, with bright blonde hair that grew to his jawline. His whole aura screaming of innocence, she thought as she approached. The other was very close to her, only a foot or two away. His back was to her, and as she passed she caught the musky scent coming off of him. He was saying something, but she couldn't make it out as she was suddenly gripped with vertigo, tripping over her own feet.

The ground disappeared from underneath her, and for a moment, all she could see was the oncoming rush of cold water that was about to engulf her. A hand clamped on her upper arm, fingers digging into her pale skin; she yelped in alarm and pain as she was yanked back to safety.

Violet took a moment to breathe, hardly believing she'd avoided that clumsy fall, "Terribly sorry," she mumbled, a bit embarrassed. Her savior glared down at her with annoyance; as if he couldn't believe he'd even bothered to save her. She assumed this was the man that only moments before had had his back to her. His hand was still gouged into her arm; she could feel the bruises already forming underneath his fingertips.

His face was gaunt and sunken: darkly handsome, with wild black hair that curled madly about his head. His eyes were entirely black, seemingly hollow. It was clear that it had been a while since he saw sunlight, drawing from his pale skin. He looked like every storybook villain she had ever imagined as a child; yet he was fascinating to look at.

"Thank you." Violet said lowly, still staring up at him curiously, with a touch of annoyance that he was refusing to release her. She glanced at his hand; iron like on her arm, the knuckles stark white. He let go.

"Watch where you're going." He grumbled, turning abruptly and swinging a gray duffle bag over his shoulder. Before the woman could get another word in he stalked off into one of the alley ways, and was lost from sight. Gone. Like a ghost.

Strange.

Violet stared after him, biting her lower lip bitterly. Who did he think he was, grabbing her so roughly?

"Sorry about that, Miss," the boy said from behind, the apology turning his cheeks a bit red, "my friend can be-"

Ms. Blackwell went along on her way, not caring at all what the boy had to say. Her irritation caused her unsteady feet to carry her faster away from the docks. She turned down the familiar street, walking along the cobble stones, without a second thought.

* * *

[Flashback]

_"What would you like today, Agatha?" Isabel asked warmly._

_The little girl standing before her smiled and tucked a lock of her chocolate colored hair behind her ear. She really was a beautiful little girl with her rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes. She wore a light peach dress with satin and ruffles, just the sort of raiment that any little girl would beg for._

_"Red poppies, please." She cooed._

_"Alright, can I ask who they're for?"_

_"Grandma." She giggled a little, fiddling with the ribbon in her hair. Mrs. Isabel Turpin nodded and smiled to herself as she gazed around the shop for the appointed plant. They were the little girl's favorites, as well as her Grandmother's; the old woman had raised the poor child since infancy when the illness took her parents. The Grandfather was some sort of official in this area, although she wasn't sure what kind; whatever it was, was enough to provide for his wife and grandchild. And more._

_"Nellie, can you hand me those red ones behind you?" Isabel asked her friend. Mrs. Lovett looked up from the bowl of seeds she was playing with, her auburn curls falling in her face. She sighed and nodded, reaching for the potted plant, "Honestly, love, I don't see how you get any rest at all."_

_Isabel laughed as she took it from her and passed the plant to little Agatha, collecting her money in return. "You get used to it, Nellie. I like keeping busy."_

_"Thank you, M'um!" Agatha sang as she skipped away followed closely by her aged nanny._

_"Where do you want this?" a familiar voice huffed._

_Mrs. Turpin's cheeks grew warm with the bubble of laughter already growing in her throat, even before she turned to look at her husband._

_"Where do you want this?" Nate arrived through the back entrance, struggling with a large sack of soil in his arms. She stood there for a moment with her arms crossed, giggling quietly to herself, biding her time; just to watch him battle with the weight a little bit longer._

_"Isabel," his voice shook as he tried not to chuckle, "dear wife." Unable to contain her snickering any longer, she pointed towards the ground in the corner of her stall. He set it down quickly, pulling himself up with a grin of triumph on his handsome face._

_"I don't understand why you need this, Isabel." He said, raking a hand through his brown hair. His face she knew by heart, but never grew tired of admiring it anyway. Green eyes specked with brown that reminded her of the pictures of the forest she had seen as a child. He was tall with the broad shoulders of his brother, but slender in the way that caused him to appear smaller than he really was. But his best feature, she thought, was his warmth._

_"If I want the flowers to grow, they need strong roots." She answered stubbornly. Kissing him lightly, she turned back to Nellie who was fiddling with the wedding ring around her finger._

_"Oh the way you tease me, woman." He said loudly._

_"You're so lucky," Eleanor sighed dramatically, "I do wish my Albert would do things for me. I wouldn't mind him carrying a few bags of flour," she murmured. Her eyes focused on something behind Isabel._

_"Excuse me." A light voice said softly._

_Mrs. Turpin turned to see a beautiful woman, probably no older than herself, with long blonde hair that hung in gentle waves around her pale cheeks. She was dressed in white, which only increased the angelic charm she held. A man was behind her, leaned over a wicker pram as he set a tiny babe inside. He straightened and faced the counter, his hand transferring itself to the small of the woman's back._

_"Yes?"_

_"We'd like to purchase these." She held up a bunch of scarlet roses. "Oh, Mrs. Lovett, hello." She beamed at Nellie from around Isabel's shoulder. Isabel turned in a bit of surprise, Nellie was already on her feet, collecting her purse._

_"Hello Lucy," she mumbled, "this is my friend Isabel Turpin."_

_The woman, Lucy, cocked her eyebrows in surprise, as did the man behind her, "You are Judge Turpin's-"_

_"No." Isabel shook her head, "No, his brother Nathaniel is my husband." she turned to introduce him, but he had already vanished; probably to fetch another bag of soil._

_Lucy smiled again, relieved, "Oh, wonderful." Isabel ignored the vile taste that flooded her mouth whenever people assumed that Richard owned her. The man beside her handed over the amount owed and she took it lightly._

_"I'm Lucy Barker, this is my husband Benjamin." Lucy said, breaking the awkward tension. Her husband busied himself with adjusting his shirt front, and trading the bunch of roses from hand to hand. It was clear he was very shy. Lucy gestured to Nellie, who was staring at the ground. "We live upstairs from Mrs. Lovett."_

_Isabel nodded thoughtfully, "It's nice to meet you."_

* * *

"_No_." Violet whispered, staring at what had become of her flower stand over the past 13 years.

What had been a dozen sweet scents that tickled her nose, was now replaced by the stench of rotting fish. Pile upon pile of the rotting fish stared up at her with their dead eyes, where dozens of blooming plants should have been. They seemed to be mocking her. An old man sat behind the counter, rolling a coin between his fingers.

He caught her staring and stood; his cracked old face turning into a rotten smile, a few of his teeth were missing. "Fresh fish, M'um? Caught this mornin'!"

She remained silent, highly doubting that. It was like everything had died again, and the pain came in a fresh wave, pounding her where she stood. It hadn't been unexpected, of course; she hadn't thought that they would have kept her business running. But actually _seeing_ it, reduced to _this level_…

"M'um? You alrigh'?" the old fisherman questioned warily at her blank expression.

She took slow steps towards him, "Who sold you this stall?" She demanded, the sadness quickly replaced by fury. Hot and angry. He seemed taken aback by her sudden mood swing, and folded his arms firmly.

"The Beadle, M'um, courtesy of Judge Turpin." She remembered that rat, Beadle Bamford, always following Richard around like a sick puppy. He'd bounced his authority around, using his association with the Judge to get whatever he wanted. Money, women, power. He was almost as bad as his master.

"Beadle." Violet growled lowly.

"Yep," the old man continued, "this ole' place used t'be a flower shop. But I guess the owners up and left one day. All the plants died, jus' sitting there without any care. 'Was pretty sad, M'um."

A deep cold spread its way to her finger tips; the hurt was surprisingly sharp. Her jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles jumped, and before she could pause to think about what she was doing, Violet turned on her toes and ran down the street. The old man called something after her, but she couldn't make it out. She didn't care.

If Richard had somehow jumped out of the shadows, she would have murdered him right there with her bare hands.

She passed a market and a few pubs; sped by a broken brothel. Her feet remembered the way to go, having been there many times. There was only one place Violet had left; only one friend she had left in this God forsaken city. Twisting and turning down back alleys, she finally came to an abrupt stop.

Violet looked up at the meat pie shop, her breath whooshing in and out of her tired lungs. It looked exactly the same; if a bit more shabby. The sign read, 'Mrs. Lovett's Meat Pie Shop.'

"Nellie," she breathed, before rushing to the front door and letting her way inside.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Admittedly, this is not my best work and I feel like I could have done a lot better, but this is what I got. I promise the next chapter will have more exciting gunk in it, and more Todd ;3. Also, for those interested, the flower shop comes from the 'Poor Thing' scene in the movie when Benjamin is arrested while they're in a flower shop ;D. This story was mostly born from all the flower references:  
****"Every day he sent her a flower, but did she come down from her tower?"  
****"I've been thinking flowers, maybe daisies, might relieve the gloom."  
****Please review! The more reviews = faster updates! Thanks!**

**.ivory.**


	3. Chapter 3: A Barber and His Wife

**A/N:  
*waves*  
Sorry for the wait, I would have posted this yesterday but there were technical difficulties :/  
I just wanted to let you know that this story does follow the storyline of the movie, but I promise I'm not going to write line for line everything from the movie, because that would be lame D:. There will be many **_**many **_**plot twists, different conclusions, and little ins and outs that I will include. There will be different events as well, so stay tuned :3. Thank you all for the reviews you guys post, you have no idea how happy they make me :3**

**Now Without Further Ado!**

**~.ivory.**

* * *

Chapter iii

A Barber and his Wife

A bell chimed as Violet entered, announcing her arrival into the pie shop.

A wave of familiarity washed over her as she took in the surroundings of the main room; the wooden floor boards and the insects that seemed to occupy every corner. The back wall was covered with cupboards and a barrel filled with ale that rested directly above a small oven.

Eleanor was behind her tiled counter, the top dusted with heaps of flour and rusty pots and pans. She looked the same, if a tad older. Dress a faded black and brown with hints of red, the front covered in flour where she wiped her hands as she baked; and her dark auburn hair wild, dripping ringlets that circled her thin pale face and narrow nose. An old wedding ring glinted around her finger. She was talking excitedly to a single gentlemen seated in the booth directly to Violet's left. Her voice stirred memories in the back of her skull; it was high, but full of color with that from-the-gutter accent of London Below.

"-an' I said to her, 'well, if your cats gone missing, don't expect me to-'"she ceased her chatting and looked up at the woman in her doorway, her face breaking into a large grin. "Well," she patted her hands against her waist, sending a cloud of flour into the air, "more customers today than I've 'ad in ages!"

It was clear she didn't recognize her former friend and florist; she had expected this of course, but it did leave a bitter taste in her mouth. 13 years can leave the memory foggy; and for Eleanor, it was probably doubly so.

Nellie gestured to the booth, "Sit down then! Go on. I'll set you up with a pie, shall I?" without waiting for a response, she plopped an already made biscuit onto a small plate and blew off another brume of flour. She sat awkwardly next to the stranger.

He stiffened beside her considerably, and to avoid embarrassment, she kept her eyes down.

Mrs. Lovett dropped the small pie plate in front of her and returned to her counter, humming blissfully.

"Why are you following me." The man next to her muttered; it was not a question, spoken lowly with a threatening growl that surfaced from the back of his throat. Violet turned to confront him angrily, caught off -guard by this stranger's reaction; she caught site of his face and her retort died instantly.

It was the same man from the docks.

He could have only been a foot away, but his black glare filled up her whole vision, threatening to swallow her whole. Violet swallowed before answering, touching the bruises on her upper arm from their last encounter. "I could ask you the same, sir."

The response sounded a bit bolder than she had intended, but kept her gaze locked with his. He opened his mouth to respond angrily, but was cut off by a loud smack; Violet looked over at Mrs. Lovett, who was banging her rolling pin against a large pile of dough. Nellie had never been the best baker, and she was willing to bet that clump was as hard as a rock.

"I'm so glad that you two pop in," Eleanor said with a quick smile. It was obvious she was trying to keep the peace; trying to keep her guests in the vicinity. "No denying times is hard, sir. An' I know I don't make the best pies, in fact their bloody awful, but-"

Amused, Violet leaned back against the booth and surveyed her friend as she rambled on and on, going on about her woes. She kept glancing up from her cooking every few moments as she chattered as if she worried her two customers might disappear. Dumping a large ladle into a pot, she stirred lazily, her chin resting in her palm.

Violet glanced back over at the man sitting next to her, who had gone back to picking at the pie on his plate. Parts of it were purple and black, but she didn't want to know exactly why. The pensive, almost annoyed look on his face grew as he pushed it away and reached for the cup beside it. She frowned, why was he here? Out of all of London, why had he come here? Violet looked back up at Nellie and then back at the unknown man.

It would be problematic if Nellie were to recognize her with a wanderer in their midst.

If only one person were to recognize her, no matter the intent, and her former brother in law were to find out. She would surely be hung. The thought made her insides cold; to hang by the rope until death would be a bad way to go, and be made worse by the fact that she had failed to avenge her husband. She was more afraid of that than anything. The strange man lifted the cup up to his lips and grimaced as the liquid trickled onto his tongue. Eleanor was the exception; years of trust wouldn't change her mind so easily. The reason she had come here in the first place was for sanctuary, but in truth, if Nellie recognized her now, thus revealing her identity; everything could be over.

Violet ducked her head.

"Trust me dearie," Nellie said, gesturing to the man with her rolling pin, "it's gonna take a lot more than' ale to wash that taste out." She set down the pin and made her way around the counter, "come with me, I'll get you two a nice tumbler of gin, eh?"

Violet swallowed as he got to his feet hesitantly, following the baker to the back room. Should she follow? Her legs seemed to decide for her, standing and following her friend and the stranger to the sitting room.

She was bothered that she still didn't know his name; he could be anyone. His back was to her as they passed short stairwell into a cozy living room. A fireplace burned at the head of the room, the wallpaper a light blue patterned with roses. Desks and mantles were up against the walls, completely covered with knickknacks and vases of fake flowers. Several chairs and couches were pushed around the fire, laid with knitted blankets and embroidered throw pillows.

Violet raised her eyebrows as she took a small armchair next to the fire, staring into the yellow and red flames. The warmth spread through her clammy bones; she'd starved for heat since stepping on that blasted boat, and the hearth was welcomed.

It was so strange, to be back in this room; fresh memories of hot summer days where the smell of baking pies wafted through the air as they cooled off with painted fans, or the gossip that Nellie would whisper in hushed tones as Albert slept away on the couch. It made her feel smile in a sad way; all those times had been cut away so quickly, so harshly, and thinking about them now was like reopening the wounds with a knife.

Nellie went over to the counter in the corner and uncorked a bottle of gin, "Isn't this homey now?" she commented, smiling a little, "The cheery wallpaper was a real bargain, too. It was only partly singed when the chapel burned down."

Violet smirked as Nellie handed her and the other man the tiny shot glasses. "There you go." Violet frowned at the clear colored liquid, hating the smell that reminded her of her Father. She leaned away from it, choosing to stare at the dark haired man instead.

He took the glass and stood over the fireplace, glaring into the flames. Violet watched him with curiosity, her blue eyes suspicious. Who was this man? And why did he seem to be everywhere?

A thought suddenly dawned on her. What if… What if Richard already knew she was here… and this man was here to collect her! She shook her head, quickly dismissing the thought; if he was a spy, he'd have already taken her. Wouldn't he? Why was she so afraid? It wasn't in her nature to be fearful of such things, and she bit her lower lip in irritation.

"You've a room over the shop, haven' you?" he mumbled in his deep voice, startling Violet out of her thoughts. Nellie poured her own glass, swirling around the contents as she took her seat in another plushy chair. "Times are so hard, why don't you rent it out?"

Nellie glanced up at the ceiling, as if she were checking it was still there. "What up there?" she asked, "No I won't go near it." Eleanor cocked her head at him, gauging his reaction, "People think it's haunted."

The man looked over at her in surprise; Violet leaned forward, her chin in her palm, "Haunted. Really Nellie, you ought to-"

She stopped herself, not realizing she used the short nickname she'd gifted her friend with so many years ago. Eleanor's brows pinched together, tilting her head to Ms. Blackwell.

"What d'you mean, haunted?" The man questioned again, clearly not sensing the tension in the room. Violet almost sighed in relief when Mrs. Lovett turned back to him instead.

"Yeah, and who's to say they're wrong? They say 15 years ago, something 'appened up there. Somethin' not very nice."

The room seemed to grow colder with her statement; the man turned back to the flames, his eyes fixed to the coals. Violet watched him cautiously, the pressure of her mistake still causing her fingers to tighten around the shot glass.

"Y'see, there was this couple that used to live upstairs, 'e was a barber…" her eyes took on a far-away look, brown eyes fogging over, and voice growing wispy. "…one of those prodigy types, 'e was. An artist with a knife…" she paused before continuing.

"He got transported to some prison for life. Barker his name was, Benjamin Barker."

Something in Violet's head clicked, then.

The memory of her flower shop, and a woman with pretty yellow hair; a man was with her, she remembered, with a baby. That man… Benjamin, he had been arrested? She wondered why, he seemed like such a shy man; what could he have done to be sent away for life?

"Transported?" The man asked, voicing her thoughts, "what was his crime?"

"Foolishness." She answered simply, a sad look in her eyes. "He had this wife, pretty as anything," she continued, knowing that her audience was rapt in her words, "an' a lil' baby girl. But there was this man, this _judge._ 'e thought she was pretty too."

Violet's heart dropped into her stomach.

"He brought her flowers an' everything almost every day."

A thought passed through her head then; a memory she'd long forgotten. Memories of Richard coming to the shop to purchase daisies and gillyflowers, smiling in the snake-like way. She'd asked him who they were for, but he'd only wink and say for a special someone. Richard had always chased women, but only for lustful purposes, never searching for any kind of attachment lasting longer than a single evening. Violet never dreamed it would have been the beautiful Lucy.

She took a shuddering breath as Nellie continued.

"But she didn' ever go down to 'im, loyal to Mr. Barker, I guess, even after 'e was gone. But one night the Beadle came to her an' said that the Judge wanted to talk to 'er. Said he was all contrite and wanted her forgiveness; so she went to his house. But they were havin' this ball all in masks."

Nellie's eyes never left the man's face, something calculating in her gaze. "He… Well… she didn' have a chance against 'im," she mumbled quietly, "they all laughed at her, jus' stood there an' let it happen."

A tightness gripped Violet as she realized what Eleanor was saying; it seemed Lucy had the same misfortune as her, except Richard had succeeded in ravaging her faithful virtue.

There it was again, that excuse. Simple Indulgence.

The man was on his feet, a rage that turned his black eyes ablaze and his cheeks a faint pink. He seemed so monstrous, like a demon; Violet leaned back in the plush cushion in alarm, fear crawling up her throat.

"Would _no one_ have mercy on her?" He barked, holding out his hands as if they might have an answer.

Ms. Blackwell cocked her head to the side, forgetting her alarm for a fraction of a second, caught up in her curiosity. Why was he so concerned about the undoing of a stranger? Unless…unless Lucy wasn't a stranger.

A man who'd gone to prison.

15 years ago.

It couldn't be.

It was _too _improbable! Violet shot her gaze at the man before the fire, his body tensed and angry.

"… Benjamin Barker." Violet whispered, her blue eyes wide. He stared straight ahead, as if he couldn't hear her in the slightest, his rage relaxing into a solid silence.

"Where is Lucy…? Where is my wife?" he whispered.

It _was _him. Violet scanned her memories of this man; but memories are funny things, and his face was obscured from her. The only clear recollection remained with his wife and child. But she could see how vastly he'd changed, how violently his demeanor skewed from the shy man who had stood before her only briefly. Almost funny, in nature; but then grimly not.

Nellie's brown eyes were large, staring up at Benjamin with a look of wonder and tragedy. She tried to hide it, but Violet could see right through that guise; Eleanor had always worn her heart on her sleeve. "She poisoned herself," she said quietly, "Arsenic, from the apothecary around the corner… I tried to stop her… but she wouldn't listen to me."

His mouth fell open, a look of pain flickering across his face as his eyebrows furrowed. She could almost see his resolve breaking.

"And he's got your daughter…" she finished. "Adopted her like 'is own.

Violet's stomach roiled; that sadistic man had taken his daughter, and was responsible for the death of his wife. Her former brother-in-law was monstrous, yet he remained in power as a judge. Where was the justice in this God forsaken city?

"Judge Turpin." Violet stood and wandered to the window, pushing aside the lacy curtains. "It's him, isn't it?" her voice caught as she stared out at the dark day; not truly seeing anything beyond the glass.

He disregarded her, tossing aside his jacket and shaking his head, "Fifteen years." His face a mask of disbelief, a trace of dark humor flitting across his pale features, "Fifteen years I've sweated… in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming I might come home to a wife and child…"

Nellie sighed and got to her feet, crossing her arms; she seemed so exhausted, like life itself was a weight on her back. "Well, I can't say the years have been particularly kind, Mr. Barker-"

"No." he whirled on her, two red spots appearing in the centers of his dark eyes; "Not Barker. Never say that name again! That man is dead. It's Todd now, Sweeney Todd..." he snarled, lashing out at Eleanor with his words; but Ms. Blackwell hardly noticed, the unbelief and coincidence of it all drifting around her like a poisonous fog.

Violet was shaking; her lungs filled with air yet her head seemed empty and weightless. She knew what he meant; her previous self, Isabel Turpin, had long since been put to her grave. If she really thought about what she had been like all those years ago… she had been care free, in love, young, happy. That man had ruined all of that, simple as a violent action.

"Why?" she said softly, her voice higher than usual. "Why does that…that _monster_ survive when everything else dies?"

An unknown emotion closed around the former florist's heart, making her eyes wide and her cheeks lose their color. It felt like she was suffocating from the inside. She'd never felt so utterly disgusted. Everyone in the room was staring at her; as if they'd forgotten she was even there.

"Who are you?" Todd asked in a deep voice. It was a threat; he himself couldn't trust her yet, he didn't know the scars that ravaged her.

Violet didn't look at him, leaned against the window and felt the pleasure of the cold glass against her skin. "Tell me Nellie," she whispered, "why do you recognize the man who lived upstairs, but not the face of a friend?"

Silence.

Ms. Blackwell turned to look at her former friend, a sad smile on her face. Eleanor's brows were crunched together in confusion, "Why d'you keep calling me Nellie? No one has called me that in…" Her eyes grew wide with realization.

"…Isabel."

Violet flinched, "As glad I am to see you, Eleanor, do not call me that." She turned from the window and took precarious steps towards the baker, clasping Nellie's cold fingers; it was supposed to be a warm gesture, but Eleanor still seemed shocked and didn't respond. "I too have changed my title to avoid suspicion; my name is now Violet Blackwell."

"I demand that you tell me who you are." Mr. Todd repeated.

"Just another woman that Turpin…" Violet couldn't finish; her throat closing. After years of suppressing all of the memories, all of the pain; and in one day it's all undone. "I want him dead." She choked out.

He stared at her, his expression softening only a fraction, but the changed had occurred. She relaxed a little.

Nellie broke the silence, "Come with me."

* * *

_[Flashback]_

"_Isabel!"_

"_Yes mother!"_

"_I need you to fetch the bill from the butcher."_

"_Yes, mother." The young girl answered, sighing a little. She hated going to the butcher, all the blood and raw meat made her stomach sick. This was something that her father should be doing, not a young girl; but he was ill again today and couldn't leave his room. 'Wouldn't', would be a more appropriate answer._

_Isabel brushed her dark curls from her face and opened the front door, stepping out onto the cobblestones. The salty air that blew from the Thames caressed her face, and mixed with the scent from Mother's flowers growing from the stand made her smile. A true genuine smile, that was simply there because it was a good day._

_She reached the butcher quickly, as he wasn't so far away. She ignored the meat hanging on display in the window and pushed the door open. The smell of coppery animal blood affronted her nostrils, causing her to crinkle her nose in revulsion._

"_Ahh, Miss Isabel 'as come to visit me t'day!"_

_The meat market owner walked out from behind the counter, wearing a long apron spattered with red claret. She looked away as her stomach rebelled. Mr. Clarke was a kind man, despite his occupation; portly but charming in a way that seemed to make up for what he lacked in appearance._

_She smiled at him, "Yes sir, I'm here to pick up the bill?" _

_He nodded, pointing at her as she reminded him, "Yes! Excellent! I'll get it; just a tick, lovely."_

_He retreated to the back of the shop, humming to himself nonsensically. The door opened behind her as someone else entered and she stepped against the wall politely, fixing her eyes to her boots. Isabel didn't like meeting people._

"_Excuse me, is the butcher in?"_

_The girl looked up, her cheeks turning a light pink; a boy, probably near her age of 15, was gazing at her curiously. His large chocolate eyes scanned her, his brown blonde hair sticking up in all directions about his head. He was dressed very nicely, obviously he came from a family with decent money._

"…_Yes." She answered a moment too late, "he's in the back room."_

_He broke into a grin, and she mirrored it; although she wasn't sure why. "Sorry but, do you work at the flower shop down that away?" he gestured in the direction of her home. Isabel's smile widened, he had noticed her? She was positive she'd never seen him before._

"_Yes, I do! My mother and father own it."_

_He held out his hand warmly, "I'm Nate Turpin." She shook it eagerly, his hands were smooth and un-calloused; she vaguely wondered if he had some sort of special cream that he used to make them so soft._

"_Isabel Redwood." She introduced herself, brushing a curl of her dark hair out of her face. He squeezed her hand gently before Mr. Clarke re-entered his shop._

"_Here ya go, Miss Isabel, give that to yer Dad. And Young Master Turpin! I see you two have met." He handed the befuddled little girl a crisp white envelope and she tucked it into her pocket, suddenly feeling very shy._

"_Yes, sir." Her new friend answered._

_She turned on her toes and darted out of the shop, her cheeks still painted a light pink._

* * *

**A/N:**

**I know this was very talky and explanation-y, but I have already started the next chapter that will be up in a few days, and it's a lot more descriptive as the story gets up on its feet. Please review, they make me work faster xD. Love you all!**

**:3 .ivory.**


	4. Chapter 4: How he Smiles

**Hi****, *waves* :3  
****Thank you so much for the lovely things you guys say to me in the reviews, they make me all warm and fuzzy 8D, haha. Sorry for the wait, this is a long chapter as well and I wanted it to be good. I actually really enjoyed writing it, so i hope you guys enjoy reading it :3**

**On with the Show.  
.ivory.**

* * *

Chapter iv  
How he Smiles

Mrs. Lovett led the two over to a stairwell that directed up to the second floor. It was thin and narrow, forcing them to follow each other single file; Nellie lead the way, closely followed by Violet, and Mr. Todd pulling up the rear.

The hair on the back of her neck rose at how close he was to her neck, she still wasn't sure as if she trusted him. He could as soon as drive a knife into her spine as ignore her completely; she hoped for the latter.

The further they climbed, the thicker the air became; the steps creaked and groaned against their weight until they finally reached a doorway. Eleanor pulled out a rung that held five separate keys; she pulled out a small iron one and fitted into the lock, grunting a little as it put up a feeble attempt to stop her.

The door swung open softly, the heavy smell of dust wafting outside, comfortable with the apprehension in the air.

Nellie entered with Violet close behind; the whole place ached with abandonment. The wallpaper might have once been honey colored, but now was peeled and ancient, revealing the wooden supports on the other side. One wall was at a forty five degree angle and was made up of a window that looked out at the cloudy sky and the tops of buildings. A large desk sat in the corner, a filthy mirror pressed against the wall behind it; an assortment of dirty bottles and pieces of paper littered it along with a small photo frame. She could only assume that they had once been full of different types of perfumes or shaving cream. A cheap metal crib sat directly by it, covered by a thick cloth. Violet wasn't sure if she wanted to know what was underneath. A short hallway branched off to the left with two closed doors on the other side.

Mr. Todd hovered outside the doorway, his black eyes curiously dead in his sorrow. So many memories must be here for the former barber; his wife was dead, his daughter captive, his home empty and ominous. Violet almost felt sorry for him.

"Come in." Mrs. Lovett said calmly, her hand on her hip. "Nothing to be afraid of, love."

He swallowed before entering, his eyes taking everything in. Violet turned away from him, taking slow steps to the window to wipe away the grime with her palm. She couldn't look at him, her heart tightening in her chest.

Nellie knelt next to the window and dug her fingers into the floor boards. "Nellie… what are you doing?" Violet asked.

She pried one of the boards loose, and reached inside the dust, producing a dark red bundle. Eleanor unwrapped it slowly, revealing a small wooden case. It was obviously very expensive, despite the age it obviously held. The wood was dark and carved with intricate designs and a gold colored latch. Violet leaned down with interest.

"That's very charming." She commented, running a finger along the top. Mr. Todd looked over at the women for the first time since entering the room and came closer.

"It's a lot more than just charming." Nellie said, tossing Violet a knowing smile. "When they came for the girl, I hid 'em." she glanced up at Mr. T, but he wasn't even looking at her; his eyes glued to the box, brows pinched together with a look of resolve. "Could have sold 'em, but I didn't." she tried again, but he ignored her.

Carefully, almost reverently, unlatching the case he flipped open the lid revealing several pairs of folded razors. They gleamed like starlight themselves, placed neatly into the velvet insides of the case; they could have been polished yesterday, untouched by the many years they have lied still. Violet gasped a little at their bewitching appearance, "They're… simply beautiful."

Mr. Todd took a split second to look up at her with appreciation, before his black eyes darted back to the blades. Though they'd known each other scarcely a day, Violet could tell the gesture was rare.

"Them handles is chased silver, ain't they?" Nellie whispered in the same reserved voice.

"Silver… yes." His voice was so soft that it was barely audible. He reached into the case and ran a finger along one of the razors before whipping it open in one smooth action, the blade unfolding with a quiet _shink._

He smiled then.

The edges of his lips twisted upwards as he gazed fondly at his blades. Whether it was for the objects themselves or the memory link they provided back to his old life; he truly _cared_ about these razors. As if they were living things.

She supposed he was a bit mad.

But then again, was she to talk?

She had cared for seemingly small and meaningless things before, hadn't she? Namely the plants she had cared for when her name was still Isabel. But they had been living things that grew and flourished; gave birth and loved. They had feelings. Her flowers had been her life, she'd cried as she dug through the dirt and told them all of her secrets, all of her troubles. And they bothered to listen to her complaints when no one else would. They made her happy. Did some people think that was as crazy as being in love with a pair of blades?

"You can move in here," Nellie said quietly, disrupting Violet and her thoughts; "you and Mr. T."

Violet suppressed a slight frown; the way she had said it suggested something intimate, as if they were moving in together. Which in fact they were, but not under the pretense of a couple or otherwise. But yes… this is why she had come here, because she had nowhere else to go. And apparently, neither did Mr. Todd. She nodded slowly.

The man in question looked up at them in annoyance, as if he'd forgotten they were there. "Leave." He said quietly, losing the smile that had only moments ago occupied his pale face.

Nellie looked disappointed at his request, but stood up all the same; Violet leaned back up to her feet as well, and the two friends left Mr. Todd alone.

They descended the stairs in silence, each wrapped in the silence of the situation.

The two former friends re-entered the parlor; it seemed like such a warm place with the fire going and the rapidly setting sun through the window. The cold conversations that had occupied the room had faded, leaving it with a feeling of comfort.

"He's so… different." Nellie muttered as she collapsed back into the arm chair, her brown eyes hollowed from that indifferent air to one of sadness. Violet nodded a little as she took her seat in the opposite chair, her pale hands clutching the folds of her dress with the emotions of the day.

Mr. Barker-… or Mister Todd, really had changed; that silent, shy man who had played with the front of his shirt and loved his wife and daughter… turned to such a dark man filled with anger.

"Love can do terrible things to people. The loss of it." Ms. Blackwell whispered quietly, the words barely audible. She should know more than others; years of sorrow had worn her down to barely a silver of her former self. She'd smiled then, not with malice or contempt; simply because she was in love. That can change everyone's appearance, make them glow. It had been a light that only Nate could coax to life, but he was gone now; and that light died with him.

Mrs. Lovett lifted the tumbler of gin that had been abandoned by the man, untouched. She downed it with a grimace of pleasure and nodded to the florist, "Want one, love?"

"No, I don't drink. You know that."

She looked up in surprise, the glass at her lips, "I forgot about that. 'Cause of your Dad, huh."

She didn't answer; instead, she asked another question. "So… where has Albert hobbled off to?" Ms. Blackwell asked, looking over her shoulder as if Mrs. Lovett's portly husband might jump out from behind the drapes.

"…'is grave." She answered, fiddling with the wedding ring encircling her finger. Ms. Blackwell froze, frowning a little; she'd been fond of the old man. There was a long silence as she didn't quite know how to respond, her displeasure quirking her mouth downwards.

"Sorry…" she said after a long time.

Nellie nodded, staring down into the distance, as if she'd heard it dozens of times. The crackling of the flames licked at the grating, sending heat towards the two around the fire. Outside, the dark gray clouds were beginning to turn an ashy color, plunging London into eventide.

"It's been lonely without you." Nellie whispered.

Violet looked up in surprise, only to see Eleanor's large brown eyes staring at her sadly. Her heart softened a little, an unfamiliar emotion spreading throughout her body. Dazed and discomforted by the unfamiliar sensation, she decided it again nostalgia, and pulled a tight smile.

"'Missed you as well, Nellie."

Eleanor kept that small smirk on her face, and fearful that Nellie would go on a long spiel on just how much she was missed, Ms. Blackwell tried, "It's getting late…"

Eleanor nodded her head, rising to her feet, "Yes…" she wrapped an arm around her flour covered waist, looking troubled. "You'll stay 'ere of course… but my bed is too small to share, and the only spare room is upstairs-"

"Oh no," Violet said hastily, shaking her head, "I couldn't disturb Mr. Todd." The idea alone made her uneasy, her stomach twisting at an odd angle. Though she couldn't place the emotion, or give it a name.

Eleanor frowned, "I guess I can make a bed on the floor, or in one of these chairs-"

"I do not mind."

Nellie jumped as the man himself appeared behind her; somehow making it down the creaky stairs as silent as a ghost. His face was empty of expression, his black eyes hollow; all of that anger, all of that sorrow, seemed to have been put away for the moment. Even so, Ms. Blackwell stared at him tentatively; why would he offer the bedstead so close to his own?

She folded her arms protectively, "It's quite alright. I'd prefer-"

"I do not mind if you take the spare room across from mine. Take it if you wish, or sleep downstairs on the floor, I don't care." He took the bottle of alcohol from the side-table and climbed back up the staircase, closing the discussion behind him.

Violet bit her bottom lip, her brows crunched as she weighed the options.

"There's a lock on the door." Mrs. Lovett said softly, guessing the woman's query. She nodded in response.

"…Alright."

After receiving a load of sheets and a homemade quilt, Violet made her way up the creaky stairs, carrying the small iron key that would fit in the door. She took a deep breath before reentering the old barber shop, lit only by the rising glow of the moon outside the window. She felt strangely alone as she turned down the hallway to the door on the left. She unlocked it and pushed it open, looking back only once at the closed room where Mr. Todd was awake. The steady pace of his shows clicking rhythmically against the wooden floor boards assured her of that.

The room that was now hers had that same smell of dust and mold that was growing behind the walls; she wondered how long it would take before the scent started to cling to her skin. Probably not that long. A rickety old bed sat against one wall, a thin mattress covered with layers of age. A window looked out above it, spilling moonlight over the peeling yellow wallpaper and the desk in the corner. A mirror sat atop it, the corner cracked, but still intact.

Lonely.

It was the only word that could come to mind as she laid the bed and stripped off her day dress. It was something she was accustomed to, something she had grown to be comfortable with. Violet curled on the bed and squeezed her eyes shut; willing sleep to come. And eventually it did, as she was lulled by the steady pacing of the man next door.

_[Flashback]_

"…_Lovely."_

"_What?" she looked up from her novel, only barely hearing what he had just said._

_Nate laughed at her blank look, his warm laugh adding to the atmosphere of the summer day, "I said you look lovely."_

_Her cheeks colored pink as she looked back at the printed pages, his compliments always seemed to surprise her; make her heart dance in her chest. He, just as the day they had met two years ago, pretended to not notice. They were seventeen now, and sitting on an old bench outside of the Court House; it was early in the morning, as they were both early risers to the day. No one was around, and total privacy was given to them; which was a rarity, especially when Nate's brother always seemed to be around. _

"_What's your book about?"_

"_It's Romeo and Juliet."_

"_Ah." He said, plucking the book from her fingers, "Do you enjoy it?" he flipped aimlessly through the pages._

_She giggled at his interest, "Yes, I do. Apart from the over dramatized scenes, I do enjoy it."_

_Nate smiled, whipping a lock of his brown hair away from his eyes; "Very true. But the climax is worth the whole story."_

"_The tragedy?"_

_He nodded, "It's a satisfying ending."_

_Isabel mused at his interest in such a novel; there seemed to be new insights into his character at every turn. He saw her staring at him with that curious glint in her eye and took her left hand in his._

_Surprised by the action, but not unaccustomed to it, Isabel breathed nervously, "So, Mr. Turpin, what does Shakespeare teach you about the whims of the heart? And of fate?"_

"_He informs me that you should call me Nate, Isabel." _

_She nodded for the thousandth time, smiling a little. There was a short silence in which he simply scanned her face as she felt the warmth of his hands, swallowing her own. Like puzzle pieces, she thought._

"_Isabel?"_

"_Yes?" she looked up a bit, and was taken aback by how close his tawny eyes were to her own. The dust motes floating in the air stopped to watch, the sun leaning closer to the two young people seated at the bench. Hesitantly, Nate reached up a hand to cup her pale cheek; and gently he kissed her. Isabel closed her eyes and let it happen… her first kiss, given to her by Nathaniel Turpin._

_Puzzle pieces, she thought again, as they sat there for an immeasurable amount of time in the morning light. And for that moment, just that one moment, everything was perfect._

* * *

Violet Blackwell awoke in a cold sweat, Nate was dead, and everything was not.

A tearless sob creaked out of her; why were the good memories as bad as the horrible ones? Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as the moonlight illuminated the unfamiliar, stuffy room. The memory had been so vivid, so real; each emotion like wildfire, intensified by the surreal edge of the dream. It was like her subconscious was mocking her.

Violet hated; hating was the only thing she was good at anymore. But hate doesn't change anything; doesn't bite back at those who had ripped her life at the seams.

Revenge did.

Ms. Blackwell swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood on the wooden floor in her bare feet and thin nightgown. It was still very late into the night. Her stomach twisted inside of her, and sleeping wouldn't put it to rights. Standing on the bed, Violet tugged on the window; knowing that if she could breathe the free air, she could calm down.

The window refused to budge, and upon further examination, she could see the frame was nailed shut. Vaguely wondering why, she searched for the key out of her room. The main window where the barber shop used to be might open. Upon finding it, Violet twisted the key into the lock and let herself out.

She stopped, for a moment, at Mr. Todd's door. Silence. He must be asleep. Satisfied, she walked down the hallway and into the main room, wondering if she could slip downstairs for a cup of water. She stopped in her tracks.

Mr. Todd sat at the desk in the corner of the room, the moonlight from the window turning his black hair silver. A bottle of gin sat before him, it looked still very full.

"Who is it?" he said lowly, not taking his eyes off of the desk; there was something in his hands, but at that angle it was impossible to tell what it was. She couldn't run, and hiding would be childish.

"Ms. Blackwell," she whispered, "Violet."

He turned, ripping his eyes away from whatever he'd been holding. He was still wearing his day clothes; Violet folded her arms self-consciously, as she was still wearing her night gown. This was against all of the rules her mother had taught her when she was young; rules on what a lady should and should not do. Being alone with a man in the night hours wearing this attire was breaking them. But… even being back in London broke all the rules altogether; so why was she thinking of them now?

But it was too late anyway, so she stepped forward into the night light, her curly hair untamed from sleep, and her knee length raiment snug around her frame; not revealing, thankfully.

"Are you drunk?" she asked wearily, thinking of her father when he was intoxicated.

"No. Did I wake you?" it seemed less of a concern for her sleep patterns, and more of a query as to why she was up at this time; disturbing him.

"No. I awoke on my own." She answered stubbornly, going to the window behind him and tearing it open. A gust of gray air filtered in, disturbing the years of grime that had grown on the sill. Remembering the dream, the sense of defiance immediately died. The rules were meaningless, but the memory of Nate was enough to make her feel guilty about being alone with a stranger in the night.

Mr. Todd flipped over what looked like a photo frame, the backside facing up. He stared at her while he took a drink from the bottle, the action itself making her twitch.

"I don't drink." She blurted automatically, he hadn't said anything, but it felt like a needed declaration. His brow furrowed; Violet couldn't tell if he was disgusted or annoyed, just an overall look of discomfort. Getting to his feet, he set the bottle down and shot her a dark look, "Tell me who you are."

"What?" she asked, caught off guard by the question.

"Tell me why you're here; why do you want the judge dead?" there was that dark edge to his words again, that double meaning. He still couldn't trust her, and she didn't blame him. She did, after all, show up at his old doorstep claiming she was here for the same purpose; the odds were unlikely. Unlikely but true.

She sighed and leaned against the window pain, she would have to tell him. Then he wouldn't be so suspicious of her, and her intentions. She pointed out the window, "See that?"

He took slow steps towards her and squinted into the city, "The Justice Building?"

She nodded, "One road down from that was where I used to live. My name, my full name, was Isabel Turpin-"

"_What_?" he snarled, his teeth clenched, the muscles in his jaw jumping. She half expected him to jump atop of her, baring his teeth and threatening her life. Fear crawled up her throat, but she pushed it down; she had to remain calm.

"I was married to his brother."

"Explain." He said, not softening in the slightest.

"Well…" she took a deep shaking breath, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, "his brother's name is… was… Nathaniel Turpin. We were married in the Spring… a-and Richard had always... been the fool that he is." Outside the moonlight hit her pale cheeks, hiding the tears that threatened to spring. It had really been so long since she'd let herself be upset, and it wouldn't start now. "About a year later, he came in the middle of the night."

The words spilled out of her, and she realized how much she needed this: to tell someone. The whole story hadn't ever been fully explained, no one had been willing to listen; writing her down as a murderer was easier. Violet fixed her eyes to the Justice Building in the distance, not really seeing anything as she drowned in her memories.

She told him everything.

"It was a warm night, the summer sun leaving the house hot even after it set. It was so hot that I was lying on top of the covers of my bed. Nate surprised me; he was supposed to be away on a call from his father. I… actually don't even remember what it was for- but he was supposed to be gone for another few days.

"He came through the front door to our bedroom; it was funny because his clothes were all wrinkled from the drive, his hair all disheveled… anyway, he went out to get something from the carriage he had borrowed and… that's when Richard came."

"I think he came in through the window in the kitchen, and into the bedroom. His face was all red and angry, despite the inane smile he wore. He... He came towards me and- and he was so cold. He tried to… but he never got the chance because I screamed. Nate ran back inside and saw his brother.

"He took out his pistol -he always had one whenever he traveled- and pointed it at Richard, yelling my name. If only I had known that would be the last time he would say it... But the Beadle came from behind and wrenched it from 'im.

"Richard twisted Nate's neck to the side," she gestured the violent action in the air, "and snapped his neck."

"The Beadle grabbed me, pulled my arms back- and even after all that, after killing Nate, he was still determined. Someone outside heard my screams and called the Bobby, and again, Richard was stopped. With the police there, he couldn't do anything to me. He told them that I had taken Nathaniel's life and arranged for me to be taken away…"

"I escaped with the help of a sympathetic guard."

The memory was plastered to the insides of her eyelids. Every time she shut her eyes, the image of Nathaniel's blank expression, his neck contorted to an unearthly angle. It was so… _wrong._

He'd smiled once, he'd laughed, he'd held her and made her life beautiful; even with the mundane and disturbed past she harbored, he still cared. Told her she was special and that he'd never leave her. He had illuminated that light in her heart; it had warmed her. He'd never leave her… He'd never leave her…

But he did anyway.

There was a long silence while her breath shuttered in and out of her lungs, her heart beat the only sound in the room.

"I'm sorry."

What? Was he… showing empathy? Surely not… compassion? Her eyebrows crumpled in surprise and disbelief; he scared her more when he was calm and quiet. She looked up at him. He was staring at her; that picture frame grasped so tightly in his hands that the knuckles were white.

His face was a mask of emotions, anger, surprise, disgust clearly written.

"I believe you." he muttered.

Before she could say another word, he slammed the photo frame onto the desk and turned back into his room, slamming the door behind him. Violet stood there, the emotions of her past still roiling around inside of her; and in that moment… the two individuals trusted each other completely. Whether it was a good idea or not, she couldn't deny it.

Slowly walking to the desk, Violet picked up the old frame and scanned the image.

Lucy stared up at her, her blue eyes shining like she'd just been laughing. A baby girl sat on her lap, covered in frills and ribbons. They were beautiful, just like Nate had been.

And they were all dead.

* * *

**Alright, guys. Please tell me what you think, And Review Review Review :] Please? :D  
Stay tuned for the beginning of the horror-ness. And also, I've enabled Anonymous Reviewing so people without accounts who are reading [and i know there are a few ;3] can review as well. I love you all ~ 3**

**.ivory.**


	5. Chapter 5: Talent Given by God

**A/N:  
Hey Guys :3  
let me apologize, I know it took a while for this to come up, but it's getting near the end of the school year and the next few weeks I'll have finals to study for. I'll keep updating as best I can, but I promise as soon as summer comes I'll be able to update a lot more frequently. I love all the lovely things you guys say to me in reviews and PM's, you guys honor me. ;3**

**Without Further Ado!  
.ivory.**

* * *

Chapter V:  
Talent Given by God

"You look… nice today, Nellie."

Violet was smug in her compliment, as she wasn't quite used to giving them out; but Eleanor looked pleased. She had spent an hour or so primping from the moment the plan had been set; her stringy auburn hair piled on top of her head and perfume clinging to her skin. She was almost unchanged in her love for society; wanting to be as presentable as possible. Her friend smirked in amusement, "We're only going to the market."

"I know, dear." She answered with a sheepish smile, her eyes drawing to the man in the booth. Mr. Todd had gotten up early that morning, despite his nightly drinking and brooding. Violet vaguely wondered if he was an insomniac. It wouldn't have surprised her.

He poked at his eggs that Nellie had prepared for him, unsure of the composition, "How long will he be in the square?"

Nellie frowned as the subject was turned by his unrelenting focus, "…'e usually stays until three, says the paper boy, but after that 'e moves his stand back towards the Inn."

Pushing the untouched plate away, Mr. Todd rose to his feet, "I want to be there before it begins." He brushed passed Ms. Blackwell as he reached the front door, not bothering to glance at her; a small look of determination on his face as he donned his leather coat. She didn't blame him, but did feel displeased that he seemed to be ignoring her. After spilling her guts to him the night before, there had been an undeniable sense of trust; but now she wondered if it had been an illusion.

The three accomplices walked out into the sticky London air and out onto the cobblestones, pausing to let a carriage roll by. The air still tasted of rain, the overcast sky refusing to lift; in fact, the clouds seemed to be touching the tops of the buildings. It was never this heavy in New York; Violet thought as they walked in silence, sunlight had been regular.

She sighed; Nellie was saying something to Mr. T, who wasn't paying any attention. From the unknowing eye, the three persons would seem so innocent; no one would know that they were planning murder. And today, right now, was the first step in their plan of action. They'd spent the morning disputing what they would do to finish Richard (this mostly involved Nellie and Violet spewing theories while Mr. Todd picked at his breakfast).

These conversations ranged from going straight up to him and using a revolver, to poisoning his evening tea. All these ideals were rejected, however, and the final plan was conjured by Mr. Todd himself. It was clever, quiet, but effective; and would provide an opportunity for the Judge to bleed. Slowly.

And challenging this so called, 'Greatest Barber of London,' would be the first step in gaining the attention of London itself.

It wasn't long before St. Dunstan's Market came into view, absolutely packed with people. Stands filled with fruit, vegetables, and other products were piled into thick wooden posts; old housewives shopped around while couples and officials milled about, all making their way to the center of the square. Violet had been here before, of course, it was the closest place to fetch groceries. Memories were painted everywhere, but she forced herself to ignore them. Now wasn't the time.

The crowd thickened the deeper they ventured; and soon the three individuals were forced close together so as to not loose each other. Ms. Blackwell caught onto the former barber's sleeve at one point, when a young man darted in front of her. She regretted it immediately, the dark look he threw her as she caught up was enough to withdraw her pale hand as if she'd been shocked. Clearly that sense of 'compassion' he'd had for her the night before had faded; if anything, he was acting more hostile. Perhaps it was the up-coming challenge that had him on edge, but she doubted that.

'Best barber in London, they say.' Nellie had said, 'Some Italian, all the rage, he is.'

"ADOLFO PIRELLI. HAIRCUTTER TO THE ROYAL KING OF NAPLES." Read the gilded signs imprinted all around the wooden stand. A red velvet curtain covered the back area, and the only objects on the 'stage' were bottles of yellow liquid, with a flap under the cartons declaring them to be "Pirelli's Miracle Elixir."

"Well he certainly seems to think he's the best." Violet murmured lowly. Mr. Todd looked down at her with a sour expression on his face that would have made her laugh if he hadn't been so serious.

Suddenly the smell of something sweet and rotten rose up to her nose making her gag; it was familiar, and disturbing. It reminded her of the jail cell she'd been forced to stay in before her untimely escape, thirteen years ago. Rubbing her nose, Violet noticed the other individuals around her muttering and holding scented handkerchiefs to their faces.

"What… what? Is that-"

"Piss." Mr. Todd said with a small smirk on his face. Nellie frowned with disgust. What was so wonderful about that?

"Yes." She answered, her eyes drawing to the small liquid filled bottles on the stand; and the realization set in, "Is he… _selling _those?" she asked in disbelief. What was he trying to pass himself off as? This "Master Barber" was clearly a fraud. She sighed and pressed a palm to her forehead, already feeling a headache coming on. This only made things easier, didn't it? If he was already a sham, it would make the public dislike him even more. Turning their focus to the one who revealed him as such.

She bit her lip and turned her head, hoping a fair wind might blow the smell away, and caught site of a familiar face.

That filthy rat.

Beadle Bamford stood amongst the crowd, now talking with a young woman who appeared increasingly uncomfortable. He looked almost exactly the same: short and fat, with shoulder length greasy hair and beady black eyes that peered out of his tiny skull. He was dressed well, and carried a walking stick, provided by Richard of course, to his favorite lap-dog. And before she knew what she was doing, she had already taken three steps towards him.

"Hold on-"an arm caught around Violet's middle, holding her back; goose bumps rose on her arms at the sudden intimate gesture. No man should grab a woman that way; fugitive or not. Anger and panic rose up like bile in her mouth as she dug her fingernails into his arm until he let go.

"Do not touch me." She snarled, whirling on Mr. Todd. He glared at her darkly, opening his mouth to retort, but she was already pushing her way out of the throng of people. Part of Violet knew she was being childish about the situation - no one had touched her so forwardly in years – which only caused her to be more upset. They weren't following her, because she wasn't heading towards the Beadle anymore, just to get out of this congregation with its entire stinking people. Glares were shot at her as she passed by, and someone cursed her, but she barely heard it.

Running straight to the corner road beyond the Market, Violet closed her eyes and breathed heavily through her nose. _He was good to stop you_, the voice in the back of her head stated; _the Beadle's dangerous, especially in public. You should be thankful._

_Be quiet_. Her sensible-self muttered.

"E-Excuse me, M'um?" a light voice asked softly.

Violet opened her eyes, peering at the youth who stood before her; messy red hair underneath a hat and two bibles in his dirty hands. His clothes were so worn, and baggy they could have fit a kid twice his age. She knew who he was; he was a beggar child, those without parents who can't afford to feed themselves. Selling bibles on church corners.

"I don't have any money." She answered tartly, her bad mood not softening. Ms. Blackwell wasn't a religious person, hadn't even been to church since she was a child. As far as she was concerned, God abandoned her the day Nate breathed his last.

He frowned and looked down at his worn shoes, "Oh. I… I was just wondering if you wanted… uh." He held out one of the bibles, it looked like it had been dropped in a puddle of water, as the pages were wavered and stiff.

She recoiled, and shook her head violently, "No I-"

"Please." His eyes were large and blue, and through that one word, she could hear all of the other things that he was trying to say: _I'm starving_. She pursed her lips, hating the way she was giving in, even if it was to a child.

Sighing, Violet pulled out her small coin purse and withdrew a copper penny, "Here, take it. But keep the bible, I don't need it."

The boy's dirty face split into a smile as he took the penny, "Thank you M'um!" he switched the bibles over to his other arm and took her hand, squeezing it warmly. It was a strange gesture, and when he let go, she felt empty. Who was this little boy…? His eyebrows scrunched together as he stared at her, troubled.

He reached into his collar and pulled out a long beaded necklace with a cross hanging off the edge. It wasn't expensive or made of stone like other rosaries that she'd seen, but of simple wood that could've cost a penny. A penny she'd given willingly.

He held it out more meaningfully when she didn't take it, "Please take it, Miss, for payment."

When she didn't react, he opened her palm and placed the rosary inside. "Take care of it, okay?" She stood there a moment, her mouth partially opened, and a cross in her hands.

"Isa-… Violet!" Nellie swung around the corner and held onto her friends shoulder, her skirts clutched in one hand, "There you are, love," she huffed, "Mister T is uh… competin' with the Italian, come on."

She tugged on her friend's hand that was still clutching onto the rosary, Violet turned back to look at the boy, but she could already see him talking to another couple on the street, the copper coin in-between his teeth.

"What's this?" Nellie asked as they walked. In answer, Violet opened her hand. Nellie raised an eyebrow, "Oh… that's nice." She fell silent as they neared the crowd once again.

Mr. Todd was atop the stage, a man in front of him, smeared in shaving cream and seated in a wooden chair. Across from him, the most ridiculously dressed man Violet had ever seen was doing the same; it must have been Adolfo Pirelli. He was tall, clothed in a skin-tight blue suit with swirling gold designs; his black hair was rolled into curls just below his ears, making his enormous nose look longer than it already was. A young boy stood by his side, long yellow locks hovering above his ears. Violet snickered into her sleeve, breaking out of the strange emotional state she had occupied. Nellie elbowed her roughly, demanding that she go silent. Ms. Blackwell did so, but still retained an amused smile; it wasn't her fault that he looked so ridiculous.

Pirelli was already half-way through his own customer, taking the time to toss accomplished grins towards his competition. Mr. Todd himself hadn't even begun to shave his own client, still in the process of scraping his blades over the strop attached to his belt. Violet leaned near Nellie, "Why hasn't he started?"

"He can do it." She answered fervently. "He can do it."

Violet bit her lip and looked towards the barber, the calm, almost passionate look on his face. He took a moment to look up at her, and caught her blue eyes; the softness in them made her breath catch. And then it was gone, and he was back to his blades. In a matter of seconds, when razor was pressed to the customer's cheek, the shave was completed. Mr. Todd stepped back with a flourish.

It had been so unbelievably quick.

"And the winner," the Beadle announced, "is Todd!" the crowd erupted into applause, as Pirelli stood with a blank expression on his face. Pleased or angry, it couldn't be told, he only stood there with his own razor hovering in the air. And after a moment, he approached the other barber and said something to him, bowing lowly with a twisting smile on his face. Mr. Todd answered him pensively, holding out his hand for the money that was owed. Nellie pulled Violet up to the stage, standing just below their low voices.

"May the Good Lord smile on you… until we meet again." Pirelli answered, handing over the paper pounds. His eyes drew to Ms. Blackwell and Nellie, before turning and striking the young boy across the cheek, sending him flying back behind the curtain. He screamed and yelled as the sounds of repeated beatings sounded from behind the stage, but Mr. Todd simply walked off the stage to rejoin his companions.

"Suppose it's just me gentle heart…" Nellie said as she helped the barber into his leather jacket, "but I do hate to see a boy treated like that." Violet sniffed, remembering the rosary in her hand and to whom it belonged to; or… used to belong to. She pocketed it.

They were stopped several times before leaving St. Dunstan's Market, mostly by curious Londoners inquiring where Mr. Todd's establishment was located and the like. With each potential customer, Violet's smile seemed to grow; one step closer to the Judge.

As they were exiting the plaza, Mr. Todd came upon the Beadle, and dragged his companions with him. "Mr. Bamford?"

The old sot turned with a prejudiced look on his face, one that scanned the man up and down, and in that moment, Violet prayed his memory was terrible, "Yes?" he asked after a moment.

"I thank you, sir." Sweeney said in a soft voice, a smile on his face that resembled more of a sneer. Ms. Blackwell's ears almost perked up at his sudden mood swing and his lathering tone, "You are a paragon of integrity."

The Beadle squinted his piggy eyes, but glued a smile on his face, and answered, "Well, I do try to do my best for my friends and neighbors." He smirked, "Your establishment is in Fleet Street, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Mr. Todd, you shall surely see me there before the week is out." He winked at the women and turned. He was coming… and as he welcomed his own death; the Judge couldn't be far behind.

"You will be welcomed, Beadle Bamford," Mr. Todd said, stopping the man before he could depart, "And I can guarantee to give you, without a penny's charge, the closest shave you will ever know." Only the women at his elbows could see the double meaning bleeding through his words, and looked over at the Beadle cautiously.

He didn't seem to notice.

* * *

**Thank you guys so much. Don't hesitate to PM me if you have any questions or concerns. I love to hear your input. It makes my life. :D :D oh, and review! :D :D**

**Oh and P.S. New chapter tomorrow ;3 **

**.ivory.**


	6. Chapter 6: Less Honorable Throats

**A/N:**

**Hey guys! Thanks again for all the beautiful reviews and awesomeness you send me! I welcome all of it, and you guys make me feel so amazing. This chapter is rated M for violence, just in case, I'm still getting used to the whole rating thing. This is where the horror comes through.**

**Now, without further Ado!  
.ivory.**

* * *

Chapter vi

Less Honorable Throats

"_Mother? Mother what's wrong?" _

_The woman leaned against the doorframe to Father's study, her face a mask of horror as tears streaked noiselessly down her porcelain cheeks. Her hand traced down the folds of her dress, leaving streaks of burgundy colored filth. "He's… I found him… he…" she mumbled._

"_Mother…? Is that…?"_

_That was when that smell hit her, causing Isabel to gag and cover her mouth; something rotten hung in the air, something that stunk like the butcher shop in the district. It mixed with the rustic scent of blood that painted her mother's hands._

_Her face a stark white, Isabel shoved past the catatonic woman, and into her father's study. And her suspicions were confirmed._

_The festering form of what had been her father leaned against the bookshelf in the corner, the revolver still held in his scarlet fingers. She stared at it; her blue eyes going dark and an unfamiliar dread spilling over her body. That smell had caked itself into the walls, into the books that lined the shelves, into her very skin. The bottle of absinthe sat uncorked on the desk, only a few inches of liquid sifted inside; the poison that had driven her father to such feats._

_Her stomach lurched and her mouth flooded with revulsion._

"_Dead." She told the corpse, "You're dead. Why did you do that?"_

* * *

The days passed slowly over Fleet Street.

Slower than they should have.

The hours were passed sitting in the parlor or the diner, while Nellie chatted about this and that. It made her realize how lonely Mrs. Lovett had really been; with no one to talk to. She poured out everything from old friends, to Albert, and back to the 'old days.' Everything drew back to the old days; and the former occupants of upstairs.

Always the same things she repeated over and over; Violet assumed it was because Nellie didn't have anything else to say. It was not something she could be blamed for. If anything, it kept her sane.

To pass the quiet hours, Violet scrubbed old pie tins and saucers that had been left abandoned behind the tiled counter. Rust spilled into the gray water and swirled down the drain.

This became a metaphor for her thoughts about her past. As soon as they came into her head, off balanced thread-less moments that had no point or use, they washed away and prepared for the next. It was like living in a prison inside her head; constantly torchered by memories of her family and Nate.

Unconsciously, she sought out these thoughts like a drug. Even the most innocent string of pearls left her beaten and shaking; the most masochistic sort of self destruction.

Quietly, she wondered if the barber did the same.

Mr. Todd remained upstairs; only descending for the occasional meal or so when his worked permitted. He'd been busy, customers roaming in and out of his shop with smooth cheeks and perfume wafting off their collars. She wondered if he found joy in it, in going back to his old profession, if he did he didn't show it. He simply kept that blank look on his face, only shifting to a more polite smirk when the clients were looking.

She wondered if he was ever lonely, despite the constant business. But as soon as the thought occurred to her she dismissed it, somehow knowing he preferred to be alone with his thoughts, anyway. Solitude gave way to thought, and his thoughts, she knew, were planning. Brooding. Compulsive obsessive. And forever stirring around in his dark mind.

Vengeance.

Violet chastised herself, knowing that she should be thinking the same; doing her part to take her revenge. Yet her mind remained plastered by images of Nate and the final days they had shared. Foolish girl, wallowing in self pity and inflicting mental wounds; and yet...

And yet, why was this man living upstairs in her thoughts as often as her beloved? Not in a romantic way, of course, but he was interesting, and his situation so similar, with the exception of his captive daughter; and he was undoubtedly attractive-

…What?

No. No! What was she thinking? She was a married woman, to a certain Mr. Turpin; just because he was gone didn't mean that their marriage had ended, right? Right. Sweeney Todd was an accomplice, nothing more! Frustrated and confused, Violet slammed the book she was holding down on the coffee table; making Eleanor jump.

"I didn't think Shakespeare was _that _bad," Mrs. Lovett protested, "a little confusing maybe-"

"I'm going upstairs, Nellie, I can't stand another second in this stuffy room."

Ignoring the surprise on Eleanor's face, Violet stood and huffed up the stairs, hiking her skirts along with her. Why she was confronting him, she didn't know, he hadn't done anything intentionally; but somehow, seeing him and denying him in her own right… might make her feel better.

Upon bursting into the barber shop, Violet saw the man himself over by the window, sharpening his razors on the strop; just as he had a few days before. He glanced up at her blurred reflection, pausing for only a half a second before returning to his blades, "What do you want?"

Violet glared at him, her hands on her hips, "How long is this going to take?"

"What?"

"How long is it going to take before the Beadle comes?" it was the only thing that could come to mind, and as she said it, she was immediately angry that she hadn't thought about it before. He turned to look at her, setting the razor on the table top.

"I don't know," he muttered, clearly it had been weighing on his mind, which only irritated her further. "Before the week is out, that's what he said." He ground his teeth and dropped the stop, letting the leather strap smack into his knees. Mr. Todd sighed and stared out the window, working his jaw.

She found herself walking up to him, her hands on her hips and eyes set in annoyance. Violet knew she shouldn't be as irritated with him as she was, it wasn't his fault, but her unspoken words had caused a defiant fire to grow in her chest. He looked up at her as if he'd forgotten she was there; and eyes locked on her throat.

"You're religious?"

Ms. Blackwell's hand flew to her collarbone, where the rosary sat against her pale skin; she'd forgotten it was even there. She folded her arms at her sides, and jutted her chin, so wanting to be defiant and give a smug, 'yes,' although it wasn't true. The day after it was gifted it to her, she decided to tie it around her neck; not for righteous purposes, but because she felt she owed the boy. Perhaps it was because he'd been kind to her; or maybe it was his blatant innocence that caused her heart to soften. Whatever the case she wore the cross now without remorse. Hesitantly, he lifted the charm into his palm, examining it with interest.

Violet held her breath as he gazed at it, turning it over and over in his fingers; hands so close to her throat, she could feel the heat emanating off of them. Violet's anger and anxiety melted. Half of her wanted to pull away in alarm, while the other puzzled at his strange closeness. Suddenly, a bright flash of blue out the window caught her eye, ripping her attention away from him.

"Hello…" she whispered, "what is he doing here?"

Mr. Todd released the rosary just in time to see Signor Pirelli crossing the street towards the pie shop, his servant boy hovelling along beside him. "Tell Mrs. Lovett to keep the boy downstairs."

Violet nodded and ranout the door, her heart in her mouth as she took the steps two at a time.

"Eleanor!" but the door was already opening, accompanied by the twinkling of the bell. She glued a smile on her face and tucked a lock of untamed hair behind her ear, hoping he wouldn't notice the flush on her face, "Good day, Signor, is there anything I can do for you?"

Nellie appeared around the corner, a look of alarm in her brown eyes; upon catching sight of the Italian, she did a double take. "Ah, Signor!"

"Signora," he inclined his head towards Ms. Blackwell, and then to Nellie, "is Mr. Todd at home?"

"Yes, sir," Violet said, "if you'll just follow me." She caught sight of the young lad in the doorway, looking around uncertainly, "Oh, and Mrs. Lovett… perhaps the boy-"

Nellie clapped her hands ecstatically, clearly receiving the message Ms. Blackwell conveyed, "Yes! Come 'ere, love," she said warmly, "let me get you a hot pie." The boy grinned and followed her to the kitchen, his brown eyes bright.

"Thank you M'um!"

Satisfied, the former florist led the Italian up the stairs, the smell of his cologne burning her nose. She wondered how many customers he'd lost in the recent days; and found she didn't care. But for whatever reason he was here, and it could only be for nefarious purposes.

"Are you… Mrs. Todd?" he asked in his thick accent. She jumped; glad her back was to him to hide her irritated expression.

"No, sir. I'm simply…" she acted on sudden inspiration, "his maid."

"Ah." He answered, and she relaxed; if he regarded her as a servant, he might be less suspicious of her presence.

The door was answered on the first knock, "Signor Pirelli." Mr. Todd greeted, his mouth twisting into a smile. Violet moved away from him as his eyes darted to her and away. His movements were strange, perhaps because he was so tall, but his fingers moved involuntarily, twitching at his sides.

Something of a spider lurked around his features, she thought, looking around for something to occupy her hands. She was supposed to be a maid wasn't she? Catching sight of the kettle on the small stove in the corner, she walked to it; still warm from its recent use.

"Call me Davey," the fraud said breathlessly, pulling off his cloak, "Davey Collin's the name when it's not professional."

Violet's mouth dropped open in shock; his 'Italian' accent had melted into regular British, not unlike her own. She pulled out the tea saucers from a drawer in the desk; thanking the stars that she'd reduced herself to a servant in his eyes. Surely he would have banished her if she'd been someone of importance.

"I'd like me five quid back, if you don't mind." He continued, stripping off his gloves and dropping them onto the trunk in the corner.

"Why?" Mr. Todd questioned wearily, his smile fell off, his brows furrowed in confusion.

"Because," Mr. Collins turned and pointed at the barber with a sly look on his face, "you entered into our little wager under false pretenses, my friend. So that you might remember to be a bit more forthright in the future, I'll be taking half your profits from herewith." He spread out his arms, as if this was these were the most agreeable terms in the world, "Share and share alike, eh?"

Ah, was that why he was here? To blackmail the barber? But what kind of dirt could he have on the man?

Pirelli smiled, "What do you think… Mr. Benjamin Barker?"

Oh, that kind of dirt.

Mr. Todd's eyes drew towards his boots, his face was shadowed, but he had no doubt he had set into shock. How could Pirelli- or Mr. Collins have known? Her hands shook as she poured tea into one of the glasses, praying silently.

_Don't let it end this way._

She found herself clutching the rosary in her numb fingers without permission.

Collins took a few steps closer to the motionless barber, self-confidence dripping off him and that smirk he wore so proudly. "You don't remember me, do ya?" he asked, tossing up his hands, "Why should you? I was just a little nip you hired for a couple of weeks, sweeping up hair 'n things like that."

Passing Violet and walking towards the desk, Davey plucked one of the razors up and ran a thumb over the engravings, "But I remember these. And how could I ever forget you, Mr. Barker? After all, you was always an inspiration to me."

Flipping open and shut the blade, he looked up at the man again; it was as if he'd rehearsed the speech in front of a mirror, all these years as a mountebank he'd learned to please crowds. Learned to make a proper speech at least. At any rate, she was frightened. Setting down the razor, Pirelli made his way over to the woman, who quickly returned to the kettle. Her back tingled as he took slow steps over to her, "As I said, I'll be taking half your shares from now on," his hands fastened down onto her waist, holding her in place, "all of them."

"_Don't touch me."_

The reply came from deep in her throat, ripping out of her lungs violently; it scared even her, not knowing she was capable of something like that. But it had the desired effect; Pirelli released her as if he'd been burned. He cleared his throat and backed away, trying to regain his composure. Thoroughly satisfied, yet still feeling the hate his filthy paws had uncovered, she stirred the tea.

"O-Of course, I will be collecting on Fridays…" Collins' voice shook from somewhere behind her, just as Mr. Todd appeared at her elbow so suddenly she jumped in alarm. Violet lifted the saucer of tea and offered it to him uneasily, catching sight of his face. It was a mask of anger, struggling to remain moderate, and darted his eyes to the kettle near her hands, and then back to her face, giving a curt nod.

Without hesitation, she gripped the kettle and dashed over to Pirelli, smashing the heated steamer against the side of his skull. A satisfying _clunk _broke through the air on impact, overpowering the searing pain her hands were receiving from the hot iron. The first blow unleashed something inside of her; an animal rage boiling her blood. All of that bottled up rage from the moment that Nate perished came to a head; and somehow, it was Pirelli's fault as well. Him and people like him; like Richard and their dirty hands that clawed for Indulgence. Pirelli wanted to indulge in their employment? He wanted to indulge in her flesh? She hit him again and again, and even as he crumpled to the floor, blood spurting from his nose, she continued the beatings. _This_ was justice; and it tasted _wonderful._

A hand clamped down on her wrist, stopping her rage in a moment; she looked up at Mr. Todd defiantly, furious that he'd stopped her. "Stop now," he ordered, "You forget there are people below."

"You think I care?" she barked, but even as she spoke, she could hear footsteps echoing up the stairwell.

"_Go_." he said, and she jumped to her feet, dropping the pot to the floorboards and darting to the doorway; opening and shutting it closed behind her.

The young boy was there, his hand reaching towards the door handle. "Signor Pirelli has an appointment with his tailor." He said softly.

Eleanor was supposed to keep him downstairs!

Violet stepped in his way, trying, but failing miserably to be pleasant, "Signor Pirelli's been called away, better go after him now." She pointed down the stairs, and his eyes widened at her hands.

"…M'um…"

She looked down at her blistered and puffy fingers; burned from the kettle she had used only moments ago to flog his master. "Ah, I burned myself while making tea, nothing to fret about. Now go on, you're master must be waiting."

Placing a pained hand on his shoulder, she tried to lead the lad down the staircase, taking a few steps ahead of him. He shook his head stubbornly, "I think it would be best if I waited inside." Turning he opened the door, entering the barber shop.

"Wait!" she hissed but he was already inside.

Holding her breath… Violet followed him.

Mr. Todd stood over by the kettle, which had been replaced atop on the counter, sipping the cup she had poured earlier. She scanned the room for the unconscious body of Pirelli but it was spotless, not a single fleck of blood in the place. Where could the idiot be stowed?

"I told him that Pirelli had been called away…" she tried to explain, wiping her irritated hands on her skirts and regretting it immediately. Sweat was beginning to sting along her palms and the salt was making them itchy; cursed burns.

The boy didn't answer, but simply leaned against the trunk by the doorway, and folded her arms. "I think I should wait; if I'm not here when he comes back there'll be a lashing. He's a great one for the lashings."

Mr. T turned to confront him; probably to order him out straight away, but he froze upon looking at the lad. His grimace melted, and his lips twitched into a tight, polite smile; something was wrong… that expression on his face was enough to tell her as such. A feeling of dread washed over her as she stepped further into the room, and hovered by his side. What is it? She tried to scream at him, what is wrong?

"So…" Sweeney said casually, taking a few steps towards the boy, "Mrs. Lovett give you a pie, did she?"

"Yes, sir," he said, his face splitting into a wide grin, "she's a real lady."

He took a few more precarious steps towards the boy, setting the cup down next to the kettle, "That she is." His face drained of color; though there was little left in the first place, sending it to the pallor of candle wax, and he smiled again, "But, if I know a growing boy, there's still room for more pie, eh?"

"Yes, sir…"

He walked forward and placed a hand on his shoulder, leading him over to the door, and that's when she saw it. On the trunk the servant boy had been leaning on, just where the lid opened, the tips of fingers poked out, pale white. And as she watched, they twitched, ever so slightly.

Pirelli was stuffed into the trunk.

And he was gaining consciousness.

Her heart almost stopped completely.

"Then why don't you wait for your master downstairs?" Mr. Todd continued, opening the door.

"There'll be another pie in it for you, I'm sure." Ms. Blackwell added, trying desperately to keep the panic out of her voice. If this boy found out… they would be caught for sure… _Please…_ she thought silently.

"I should stay here, though." The servant said firmly. She almost exploded, almost yelled at him to leave, _Just go now! Go, before your master awakes in his own blood!_

Mr. Todd twitched, the smile twisting into a grimace that he struggled to recover, "Tell you what," he said lowly, "you tell Mrs. Lovett to give you a nice tot of gin."

The young boy's eyes lit up, "Thank you sir!" And out the door he went, a large smile on his childish face. Violet almost sighed with relief. "That was close." She muttered, mostly to herself, "That was too close…"

"We're not done yet." He said, staring at the trunk. Slowly, he went to the desk and retrieved his razor, wiping it on his shirtfront to rid it of the fingerprints of the oppressor. Violet was reminded of the first time she saw him so many years ago, when he'd adjusted his shirtfront out of nervousness. But he wasn't Benjamin, this was a completely different man: Sweeney Todd.

It all happened so fast.

Mr. Todd walked to the trunk and lifted the lid, hoisting the man up by the back of his ridiculous blue coat. "No… Please…" Collins said in a delirium, still drunk from his plunge into unconsciousness. Sweeney flipped open his razor, disgusted by this dead man's pleadings; and held it to his throat.

"No… Please no! No!"

She looked away, just as the blood splattered her collar from clear across the room.

* * *

**Please, please review!**

**EDIT: major points if you understand the String of Pearls ****reference.**

**Sorry I deleted it a few moments after i uploaded, but I left out the part where Anthony comes and tells Mr. T about his encounter with Johanna for a reason. Calm down, dearies, it'll all work out. I have a plan! :D  
****.ivory.**


	7. Chapter 7: Reason to Rejoice

**A/N:**

**Hello, there. :D  
I am sorry. D:  
Hopefully you are all still there o.o Exams ate up my last two weeks, because I freak out and review until my eyes bleed around that time of school. There will be another A/N after the chapter, so hopefully you'll be able to sit through this really long chapter.  
Also, I want to dedicate this chapter to one of my favorite authors of all time who died a few days ago, Ray Bradbury; Rest in Bliss. There's nothing I can say that will do him justice other than,  
On With the Show!  
.ivory.**

* * *

chapter vii

Reason to Rejoice

The air was heavy with the smell of coppery blood; so heavy, each breath was an effort that seemed impassible. The only sound was the body dropping back into the trunk, and the heartbeats of the barber and florist. "Forgive me," Mr. Todd muttered, flicking droplets of life off the end of his razor, "I meant to be… less careless."

Violet was shaking, blood spattered in one thick line across her chest, warm from the body it had inhabited only seconds ago. She did her best to lean away from it, but as it was covering her front and a bit of the floorboards around her feet; the scent was inescapable.

He stared at her with what might have been concern if he wasn't so busy cleaning the flecks of blood away from his hands. The handkerchief he usually kept in his pocket was growing filthier by the second; she stared at it, feeling the panic close around her neck like a deadly viper. Violet reached up a trembling hand and clawed at her shirt front, staining her fingers with red; nothing in the world could get this feeling out of her skin.

No, it wasn't guilt; Pirelli had deserved what he'd gotten. Not only for the potential blackmailing and the hidden meaning beneath his breath, but for the way he'd frightened her. Yes, fear. He'd recognized them; could have turned them in if Mr. Todd hadn't complied. Could have cut off their mission with one simple conversation. How easily their goals could disappear.

He squinted at her, craning uncomfortably close to measure Violet's blue eyes; scanning her sanity, checking to see exactly how fazed she'd become. Frowning, she stepped away from him, no matter how shaken she was, he wouldn't see it.

"Hopefully your aim will improve with time." She muttered, as long as he believed she was intact; she would hold. But pretending was something she could only do halfway. He leaned back, reassured but not convinced by her pettiness that felt so out of character, and nodded as the door opened behind them with no warning whatsoever.

"That boy is drinkin' me out of house and home…" Nellie complained as she slouched inside, wiping her powdery hands on the front of her dress. Violet relaxed, she'd never been so happy to see the baker in her life. Her eyes widened upon locking onto Ms. Blackwell; the life blood covering her front taking her aback. "… You didn'."

Violet yanked the cloth away from Mr. T and started scrubbing the front her dress, it would probably stain; which was lovely. Sweeney narrowed his eyes at her, but allowed it, flipping the blade closed and setting it back onto the desk. Nellie's mouth twisted into a firm line, eyes darting from Violet to Mr. T, to the floor. The florist nodded her head to the trunk in way of answer, she would find out soon anyway; and there was no reason to be hiding it away from her friend.

"In there."

Mrs. Lovett darted to the trunk, tearing the open the lid; she gasped and slammed it shut just as quickly, "You two are barkin' mad!" she hissed, "Killin' a man wot done you no harm!"

Sweeney looked at his sleeve in annoyance; wrinkling his nose at the scarlet stain, "He recognized me from the old days," glancing up at the baker, "tried to blackmail me… half me earnings."

Eleanor exhaled, pressing a gloved hand to her heart, "Well... that's a different matter then… For a moment there, I thought you'd lost your marbles."

Violet smirked, tossing the rag aside and frowning at the trunk with the body festering away inside. It was starting to smell… something that reminded her far too much of the day her father took his own life. The lid creaked as Nellie flipped the cover open and squinted inside, one eye brow raised, "Look at all that blood… Poor Bugger."

"Perhaps." she said bitterly, spreading her arms, "Too bad he ruined my only dress."

Eleanor gave a small smile, "Place the blame where it's owed, love," she stole a glance at Mr. Todd with a giggle bubbling in her throat, but he wasn't paying attention. Shrugging, she reached inside the trunk and muffled around for a bit before producing a small red purse. Nellie opened it and smirked before depositing it in the folds of her dress. "Waste not, want not, right?" she asked.

"Right," Violet answered, amused with Eleanor's gutter excuses, "so…" Ms. Blackwell continued, taking a seat in the barber chair, it smelled like leather and shaving cream; a pleasant smell that always seemed to cling to Mr. T wherever he went. "What are we going to do about the boy? He still downstairs?"

Nellie nodded, "Drinking away all my profit." If Violet didn't know any better; she'd think there was a note of affection in the baker's words. She was fond for the boy; she could see why, but as she'd said, it could only be Nellie's maternal instincts acting up.

"Send him up." Mr. Todd muttered.

His voice was so cold; so unbearably cold, Violet cocked an eyebrow in surprise; she'd forgotten how merciless he could be. "I don't think we need to worry about him." Ms. Blackwell said calmly.

Nellie nodded in agreement, "He's only a child after all; a simple thing."

The barber glared at the two women, two red spots seeming to appear in the depths of his black eyes, "_Send him up."_

Violet felt the urge to shiver; such frustration in his words, almost ferocity. Was it the urge to kill again? She wondered, simply bloodlust? No, she didn't think so, perhaps he was countering simply because they agreed against him. "Now, Mr. T…" Eleanor said gently, taking tentative steps towards him, "surely one's enough for today? Besides, I was thinking of hiring the lad to help me run the shop. My poor knees ain't what they used to be…"

Mrs. Lovett looked up at him from under her lashes, the pleading in her tone calm and collected. She was good at this sort of thing: persuading. She'd done it before, surely, because after a moment of staring at the woman down his nose, Sweeney turned away from her and stalked to the window.

"Alright."

A pang hit Violet square in the chest as Nellie smiled in satisfaction; an emotion somewhat reminiscent of… jealousy? But why should she be jealous? Because Nellie could manage to sway Mr. T when she could only feel anger towards him; a blight of defiance that only upset them both? She frowned… these grading emotions piling in her subconscious weren't healthy.

_But when have you ever been concerned about being healthy? You came here to murder a man, didn't you? That's certainly not good for a person's state._

"Course, we're gonna have to stock up on the gin," Nellie continued, a smile playing around her lips, "boy drinks like a sailor… You alright, love?"

It took Violet a moment to realize that Eleanor was speaking to her, her mind still caught up in reverie. "…Yes, I'm alright."

"Someone's coming." Mr. T murmured from the window; his eyes locked on a figure outside, the muscles in his back tensing up. Suddenly he ripped his jacket off and tossed it to Violet, "Put that on-"

She caught it, surprised by the sudden harshness, "But your sleeve!" He looked down at it in angrily, folding it up into a tight bunch until the blood was almost invisible. Violet tugged on the jacket as Nellie wiped at the floor; the splotches of red disappearing. She tucked the filthy rag in her pocket just as the door opened; the bell sounding as a young boy bounced inside.

"Mr. Todd!"

It was that sailor boy from the docks, the night Violet met Todd, his damp cornhusk hair hanging in wavy sheets around his boyish face. Blue eyes alight with exercise and distress, stirred with excitement. Rainwater dripped off of him as he caught his breath; he sped to the barber, brushing past Mrs. Lovett. "S-Sorry M'um!"

"Mrs. Lovett, son." She answered slowly, annoyed. "N' that's Ms. Blackwell."

"A pleasure, M'um." He nodded toward each of the women and turned his attention back to Mr. Todd, staring coldly at the boy. His words spilled out of mouth, meshing together in his hurry to have them known, "Mr. Todd, there's a girl who needs my help! Such a sad girl, and lonely, but beautiful as well and-"

"Slow down, son." Sweeney said comfortingly, leading the lad over to the chair where he gestured for Violet to get up. She did so, a bit peevishly, and the boy sat down, eyes directed towards Todd eagerly.

"Yes. I'm sorry…" he took a deep breath and folded his hands together, "This girl has a guardian who keeps her locked away, but then this morning, she dropped this out her window." He dug in his pocket and produced a large iron key, a green ribbon looped around the handle, "Surely a sign that Johanna wants me to help her! That's her name, Johanna."

Everyone's breath caught in their lungs, eyes directed towards the man with the black eyes and the cold heart. Johanna… That was his daughter's name wasn't it? The girl who was captured by the Judge at the time of his wife's death; forced to lodge with him in that tall building, little Johanna Todd…

His mouth fell open a half an inch, his eyes trained on the young sailor boy as he continued his story, "And Turpin's her guardian, a judge of some sort, I think."

That confirms it, Violet took a few steps forward and placed a hand on the back of the chair, the boy glanced at her and then back to Mr. Todd; clearly he didn't recognize her. "As soon as he leaves for court in an hour, I'm going to slip into the house to release her and beg her to come away with me."

"Oh, this is very romantic." Nellie commented.

"Yes," he said with a charming smile and turning back to the barber, "but I don't know anyone in London, you see. And I need somewhere safe to bring her till I've hired a coach to take us away." He looked down at his hands, "If I could keep her here just for an hour or two, I'd be forever in your debt!"

It seemed that Mr. Todd had forgotten how to speak, his mouth opening and closing with no sound escaping. Violet swallowed, she'd been so caught up in murder and bloodshed… that she forgot there was still a life yet to preserve. The soul of a young girl that was to be rescued; that had always been apart of the plan… hadn't it? How could she have forgotten so easily?

"Bring her here," she blurted, "the girl will be safe here."

Eleanor looked up at her with surprise, eyebrows raised; why was she so perplexed?

The boy turned to her graciously, "Thank you, M'um. A-And Mr. Todd?"

Glancing at the florist and then back to the lad he nodded his head slowly.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, my friend. You will not regret this, I swear to you." He shook his hand, rising to his feet and whirled out the door before another word could be said. Sweeney's arm still extended towards the air even after the boy had released it, his brow furrowed. After a moment, he dropped it and walked to the desk, scooping up the blades.

"Seems like the fates are favoring you at last, Mr. T." Nellie said, her hands on her hips. The man glanced up at her as he attached the strop to his belt and scraped the razor back and forth against the leather; his mouth set in a tight line.

"What is it? You'll have her back soon…" Violet said, collapsing in the chair once again, rubbing her nose.

"Yes… but what about him? The boy…"

"Him?" Nellie queried lightly, indifferently, "Well… let him bring her here… well that's a throat to be slit, my dear."

"There's no telling what the boy might do." Violet answered, although there was a sort of regret in her voice. So young, but… his death was inevitable, what was the point of keeping him alive when he'd only have to suffer in this world a bit longer? "You have to admit that his finding Johanna in the whole of London was lucky… Especially with Richard lurking behind every corner."

Wait…

_The Judge leaves for court in an hour._

"Hold on a tick…" Violet muttered; the others looked up at her curiously as the pieces fell into place inside her head. "The boy is more useful than you think, Eleanor… I may have an idea."

* * *

"_Darling…"_

"_Yes?"_

"_Have you ever thought… about having children?"_

_Nate dropped the cup of tea he was holding, the liquid spilling over the table and soaking the pages of his newspaper. Mrs. Turpin bit her lip as she mopped it up with a wet rag, face red as she scolded herself silently; stupid for asking him so in the first place! It's too soon, foolish girl._

"_I'm so sorry," Isabel mumbled, wadding up the London Times and tossing it into the rubbish bin, "I'll go out and fetch you another copy-"_

"_Do you?"_

"_What?"_

"_Do you want children, Isabel?"_

_She bit her lip and sunk into the chair across from her husband, hands knotted tightly as his kind eyes surveyed her face gently. Of course she wanted children! She'd wanted them from the moment they were married! But she'd been so nervous about asking him… _

"…_I didn't think it would be a bad proposition." She said quietly, stealing a quick glance towards Nate's blank expression._

_He rubbed his nose, "…Alright."_

_Isabel's ears almost perked up at the word, disbelief flickering across her face, "Are you sure?"_

_He got to his feet and crossed to her, a warm smile on his face as he bent down to kiss her porcelain cheek. "When I return from the ordeal with Father, I promise. It will be a joy."_

_She smiled and buried her face in his shoulder, pulling him closer, "As soon as you return."_

* * *

Violet stared at the fluffy, sparkly version of herself in Eleanor's mirror and grimaced.

"I look like a whore."

Eleanor frowned, clearly insulted by Ms. Blackwell's lack of taste. "It's your own fault for not bringing more than one bloody dress."

The fabric clung tightly to her frame, the top ruffled and cut with sparkling sheens down the front and back. It was unlike anything she'd ever worn before, and nothing she would have purchased either; but it was the only spare dress Nellie claimed she owned. Her shoulders were too narrow for it, and the back was bone straight; preventing any sort of slouch she would normally be comfortable with.

"I still look like a prostitute, Eleanor."

"I think you're pretty, Miss Blackwell." The servant boy said from the corner of the shop, his lips greasy from the pie he was currently stuffing his face with. She didn't blame him, who knew when his last meal was?

"Thank you, Toby." Violet stared at her shoes; he reminded her so much of the boy in the market, the crucifix hanging around her neck feeling heavier than usual. Did she have the right to even wear this trinket anymore? She didn't care.

"You should go; he will be leaving the court house soon."

The barber spoke lowly from the corner of the room, his arms crossed and eyes fixed on the wall to her left. "Please remind me why I have to go and not Eleanor." she huffed, hands on her hips.

"Because Mrs. Lovett has to mind a pie shop."

"And you came up with the idea, love."

"…Very well." Violet grumbled, ignoring the smirk on Nellie's face. "I will be back within the hour." Turning on her heal, she opened the door, inhaling the damp air, free from the smell of burnt bread and mold. Just as she stepped out onto the cobblestones a hand reached to her arm, clamping down on familiar bruises; she sucked in a sharp breath at the pain, a curse rising in her throat.

"Good luck."

The hand retracted and the door slammed behind her.

There were a few moments of silence while involuntary chills shot up and down Violet's body, cheeks painted a deep scarlet. The realization of this only made her angry, and she clenched her fists to stop the tremors.

Fool!

Pulling up the shoulders of the dress to cover her bony shoulders, Violet started a brisk walk to the courthouse, skirts billowing and eyes fixed straight ahead. There was no time for that sort of thinking; not when the Judge's eminent death was so close.

The path was still the same, as if the years hadn't passed at all, and the next moment she could turn and see old friends calling from their windows. But that wouldn't happen because all of them were either dead or too lost to remember her wanted face. The tall brick buildings crowded close together, the figures inside hid behind their floral drapes and scanned the walkers out on the pavement. And the Londoners who blew past wouldn't spare a glance, too wrapped up in their own doings to bother with hers.

London had changed… maybe not so much on the outside, but the people were different. No… maybe she was finally seeing them for what they really were. Scum.

Ms. Blackwell was close now, the court house was just down the next street; and further along was her old home where Nate was murdered. But before she could really think about it she decided against it; she would never see that place again.

"'S'cuse me, pretty lady!" A shrill voice cooed.

A scabbed, nail bitten hand reached around Violet's waist, taking hold of her sleeve and spinning her easily. An old woman stood before her, head ducked beneath a thick bonnet and dark greasy hair that hung in clumps around her ashen and virus ridden skin. Clothing ragged with holes and stains, and a bundle of dirty fabric was scrunched in her bony arms.

Cringing, Violet slapped her hand away, knowing that every inch was grimed with disease. "Leave me be." she barked.

"No, please! Please, lady," the woman clung to her skirts, sobbing as she fell to her knees and patted the fabric as it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen. "Half a penny on you?"

A twinge of disgust and pity blew through Miss Blackwell as she stared down at the skeleton of a woman. Her mouth pinched in a tight line, just as the bell above the courthouse began to toll, counting to noon day. Richard would be leaving soon, and mercy melted from her bones as she tore her skirt away from the beggar.

Her shoes took her away from the lonely road and from the woman who wailed and screamed after her, praying for pence. Her thoughts directed only to the tall off-white building just around this corner of the shoe repair shop. Violet paused, took a deep breath, and peered around the shop's corner.

People spilled out the doors of the courthouse, the falsified jurors and lawyers chuckling to each other as they sipped from silver flasks. She scanned the faces in turn, her heart rate increasing with every clean shaven and unfamiliar cheek.

_Where is he?_

_Where IS he?_

The pearly doors swung closed and a cleaning boy sloshed up the stairs, a bucket in one hand and a cloth in the other. Violet cursed under her breath and bit her lip, he must be here somewhere! The door to the shop swung open and two gentlemen exited.

"Thank you, your honor! Just the sentence we wanted!"

Beadle Bamford, it surely was; Violet spun around the corner, hiding herself from the rat.

"Was he guilty?"

Her heart dropped into her stomach.

A flash of memories came with that low, slithering drawl. It haunted her, crawled through her mind like a drug in the deep hours of the night; it was poison in her blood. Violet felt sick, he was only feet away, she could tell, fury and fear boiled in her chest.

"Well if he didn't do it, he's surely done something to warrant a hanging," the Beadle replied, the tapping of his cane against the cobblestones stopping for a half a beat as they paused.

"What man has not?" Richard said lowly. She shuddered.

"Sorry?"

"No matter… I have something I wish to discuss with you, my friend. Some important news." They clearly were going to stay, inches away, for this 'discussion' that Mr. Turpin was talking about. Violet leaned against the brickwork, pondering her next move as he continued jovially, "In order to shield her from the evils of this world, I have decided to marry my dear, Johanna."

_No._

"Ah, sir! Happy news indeed!"

_This cannot be true._

"…Strange though…" Richard continued, "When I presented myself to her, she showed a certain _reluctance."_

He sounded utterly astounded, and it was then that Miss Blackwell saw her in point; the idea forming quickly and pointedly in her mind. If this didn't work, then nothing would. In one swift movement she turned the corner, right into the face of her brother-in-law; gray eyes only inches away from her own. She prayed his memory was just as dim as Nellie's had been.

"Excuse me, my lord," she curtsied, once again pulling up the shoulders of her poorly fitting dress, "I could not help but overhear your predicament!" The Beadle reached out an arm to cover his master's chest, a protection against this woman's feminine wiles.

"I'm sorry," he snapped, "Judge Turpin has no interest in-"

"Silence, Beadle," Richard said calmly, pushing away his fat arm, "forgive my friend." Carefully, he reached down and lifted her pale hand to kiss it gently. Her skin crawled; the temptation to strike and ring his neck was so strong it was almost irresistible.

She smiled apologetically; at least she hoped it seemed apologetic, and nothing like the grimace of revulsion she wore underneath the mask of kindness, "Of course, I have a suggestion for your honor, if you would care to listen?" He nodded his assent and she took back her hand, resisting the urge to scratch at her skin, removing the feeling of his fingerprints.

"Perhaps you're looking less than your best, Judge?" He frowned, but she took another step towards him anxiously, as if he might up and run from her, "There's powder here and there from court," Violet brushed her hand along his vest, sending imaginary dust towards the wind; the Beadle watched with his eyes narrowed, his chin jutted outwards, but she paid him no mind. "And I'm afraid you could use a clean shave, best be presentable when you propose to the young lady, yes?" Violet smirked.

"Perhaps I am a little…" he glanced at himself in the reflection of the shop window, "a little over-hasty…" She smiled even wider; so close now, dangling the bait over the wolf's nose was proving easier than expected.

"Fret not," she detached herself from him, "I know a barber of great skill who, I'm sure, will provide for you the smoothest shave you will ever receive."

"Would that be Mr. Todd of Fleet Street?" the Beadle asked, and she nodded graciously, "Ahh… yes I remember you, you accompanied the barber to Pirelli's stand a few days ago."

"That would be me, sir." Violet answered, "He is a good friend of mine."

"So you are not his wife?" Richard asked, his grey eyes flashing to a familiar glint, her stomach flipped and twisted in disgust, "No, I am but a friend of the woman who lives down stairs."

He nodded thoughtfully, that smirk twisting his lips upwards too equal to that of an eel, "Very well, Miss…"

"Blackwell, sir, Miss Violet Blackwell."

Her brother-in-law hooked his arm through Violet's, not knowing that she would lead him to his grisly end, "Miss Blackwell, take me to this barber."

* * *

**A/N:**

**It's two in the morning…. Wooo…. Hopefully my characterization is still intact. I admit this isn't the best chapter on the planet, the pieces were written at late night intervals after studying. But I'm done with the excuses and lameness. Since it is now summer, I promise I will update more often now, hopefully at least once a week. Please review, I love hearing from you, it makes my life. And feel free to PM me.**

**.ivory.**


	8. Chapter 8: They All Deserve to Die

**A/N:**

**Hey guys! Thanks for the reviews and favorites n' such. They make my day ^-^. Here we go!**

**On with the Show!  
.ivory.**

* * *

chapter viii:

They All Deserve to Die

_Violin music filtered through the air, accompanied with the soft chuckles of men and women as they sipped champagne. The males stood in the corners of the room, counting the change in their pockets as their spirits rose steadily. The women deemed to be cake toppers, all dressed in their frills and ribbons, cheeks tinged with pink as they danced in endless circles. It was all very magical and enchanting._

_Isabel probably appeared to be the worst of them; the white and peach colored dress bustling at her hips and flowered in lace down the front, showing only the memory of her light skin. It really was a beautiful wedding dress, supposedly belonging to a grandmother she'd never met._

_The bride wasn't sure where her groom was… probably caught up in a conversation with relatives. The Turpin family members never disregarded a chance to undermine Nate and build up his brother. 'Richard is destined for greatness; shame Nathaniel's head is full of cobwebs.' __They wouldn't expand their minds to see what he was capable of, it seemed only she knew how wonderful Nate could be._

_She sat out on the balcony, savoring the quiet moment alone; away from all the stiff upper-class and judging eyes. It tasted wonderful out here… less perfume filled, heavier with the rain that the clouds were about to release. __The lady was happy. The warmth bubbling up in her chest shone out her eyes and the smile on her lips, the wedding band around her finger had a sort of freedom tied with it. There wouldn't be any dark days, no more loneliness; only endless spring mornings where it was only the two of them and the smell of roses. Nothing in the world could change that now._

"_Mrs. Isabel Turpin... it suits you remarkably well, dear sister."_

_He walked out onto the balcony slowly, his hands tucked behind his back and brown hair combed into precise waves above his coal black suit. Her arms immediately folded themselves around her middle as she surveyed him; a tight smile fixing itself to her face._

"_Brother-in-law," she greeted with mock tease, "are you enjoying the banquet?"_

"_I am." he insisted, leaning on the balcony to gaze at the dark city, "Yet the bride is out here alone… shouldn't you be with Nathaniel?"_

_She shrugged, wishing more than anything that he would just leave, "We have the rest of our lives to be together, but he can only entertain his family for one night. What better gift can I give them than this?"_

_Richard straightened, producing a rose from the inner lining of his jacket, "But you are the better half, you should be the one receiving gifts. I hear they are your favorite, dear…" He tucked the rose behind her ear, the thorns lost in the loads of dark hair. "Does Nathaniel ever give you flowers?"_

"_I am a florist, it would be quite silly."_

"_Nathaniel is prime in silliness."_

_Isabel pushed away from him, the scent of his burning cologne wafting off of him and staining her hands. "Leave me be," she muttered darkly, she was so tired of playing this idiotic game of make-believe. "The praises of your mother and father have over swelled your pride, Richard."_

"_Forgive me." He answered lowly, regaining his balance and straightening his coat; his irritation was palpable, ingrained in his apology. _

"_No," she growled, he had switched on her emotions with his blunt attitude, and there was no stopping her frustration, "I will never forgive you. Nate is a good man; his brother should see that above all others."_

_There was a long silence, both staring at each other angrily; a hot fire burned behind his silver eyes, and she half expected him to strike her. Instead, he merely smiled, that was simply the slit of his mouth curving at the edges. "Alright, Mrs. Turpin, never forgive me. And I, in turn, will never absolve you of the sin you have committed tonight." _

_Reaching out an arm, he gripped her shoulder like a vice, fingers digging into her skin. She tried to get away, but he held her there, leaning in so he could whisper lowly into her ear, "Because one day I will come for you, one day I will devour every inch of you. _Every inch, Isabel._ I promise you that."_

_Tears crawled their way out of her blue eyes; the fear so intense it blocked out everything else. She felt sick, knowing that he meant the words that he spat at her. Richard slid his hand down her arm, lifted her cold hand and kissed it. She stared down at him in pale shock, tears staining her cheeks._

"_Have a lovely wedding night, dear sister."_

* * *

"You may go home now, Beadle, I am sure Ms. Blackwell can show me the way."

They stood outside Eleanor's pie shop, the sky drizzling wet tears that fell on their unveiled heads. Violet was locked in Richard's arm; his cologne making her eyes water. He gazed at her every few moments, his breath washing over her face and mixing with the smell of rain.

_He doesn't recognize me._

_He doesn't recognize me._

_He doesn't recognize me._

Violet repeated this over and over to herself, every time his gray eyes met hers, every time he'd pause to compliment on how beautiful she was. They were empty words, the kind he'd say to girls he intended to court for only an evening. She smiled with inner malice in the knowledge that they were only steps away from his grisly and utterly satisfying murder.

"Here we are, sir." She said cheerfully, propping open the door and allowing the Judge inside. He nodded to her, and whipped off his hat, tossing it to the bench where Toby happened to be sitting. The pie dropped out of his hands as he caught it in his greasy fingers, a shocked expression on his face. The Beadle remained outside, a slight look of suspicion lacing his piggy features.

"Up the stairs here," Richard tore himself away from her, as he hurried up the creaky steps, Violet close behind.

_Thirteen steps._

_Twelve steps._

_Eleven steps._

Closer and closer; she almost pushed him through the door: _Hurry, Fool! Hurry to your death!_

And there, standing just behind the chair, stood the murderer. Wearing a mask of kindness; his true face belonging to a demon, alluring dark coated and filled with a lust for revenge. And in that moment, Mister Todd was the most beautiful monster she'd ever seen.

"Mr. Todd?" asked the Judge, hovering in the doorway uncertainly. Violet placed a hand on his shoulder, tracing small soothing circles along the clothed flesh of his back. Like her uncle would have done when he roamed through the forest when he hunted small animals; calming them before the kill.

"At your service," the barber answered, dipping his head slightly, "An honor to receive your patronage, my lord." He smiled slowly, and she found herself utterly excited by it, fifteen years in prison had prepared him for this moment; it was within is hands.

"You know me, sir?" Richard questioned, taking slow steps into the room.

"Who in this wide world does not know the great… Judge Turpin?" Mr. Todd queried, every word said calmly and formed with scarlet highlights. Violet almost purred as she ushered Turpin further into the room; he did so, raising an eyebrow and sneering at the peeled wallpaper and squeaky floorboards.

"These premises are hardly prepossessing, and yet the Beadle tells me you're the most accomplished of all the barbers in the city." He passed the barber to look out the window and scan the perfumes on the counter. While his back was turned, Sweeney Todd let his expression fall, a look of extreme disgust crossing his face. Violet almost laughed, oh how soon it would be over!

"That is gracious of him, is it not?" she asked, urging her accomplice.

"It is," he said, smiling once again as he turned to the Judge who was positioned by the window. "What may I do for you today?" he said, turning Richard gently and removing his jacket, stained here and there by rain. "Stylish trimming of the hair? Sit, please, sit."

"Or perhaps a soothing skin massage?" Violet offered, taking the coat from Mr. Todd and hanging it on the rack near the door.

Richard ignored both requests, turning back to the barber, his hands tightening at his sides, "You see, sir… I am in love with a young woman. Infatuate with her, I would say. She is a creature of extreme faith and beauty; I cannot contain myself from her. I propose to her at the end of the day, so fetch the French cologne and make me a presentable man. But first, I think a shave is needed."

_A shave is needed, indeed. _Violet thought savagely; smiling him in the face.

With that, he unbuttoned his collar and seated himself in the chair, spreading his feet and leaning back, exposing the white of his neck.

"Of course, sir, the closest I ever gave." Sweeney said with what might have been humor coloring his tone. She'd never heard him jest, and it was all she could do to contain herself. A small giggle escaped from her mouth that she covered up with a light cough. Mr. Todd shot her a glare that she only grinned wider at; nothing in the world could dampen her mood now. _Finish it, please!_

Richard caught site of her face and gave a bit of a smirk as Mr. Todd threw the cloth over his body; and Violet thought that it would make short of a mess. "Are you in a merry mood today, Ms. Blackwell?"

"Yes sir, I am. It is wonderful to see a man so deeply in love." She responded, plucking up a bottle of perfume and sniffing it coyly. Giving her body something to do would retract from the odd staring she most wanted to do.

"Truly what more can man require," the barber remarked, stirring the brush around in the shaving cream, a look of complete serene on his face, "than love?"

"What else is there?" Richard questioned, as the barber began painting his face white.

"Women." Todd answered. She sniffed, disliking the turn in conversation.

"Ah… yes women make it all worthwhile do they not?" The Judge muttered lowly, sighing as he leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes…

Quietly, Violet lifted the silver grated razor from the box of its brothers and held it aloft to the barber; enough with uneasiness and faded memories, at least for the moment. Something more important was about to commence. He took it from her slowly, almost reverently, and flipped it open; the blade catching the light softly.

Her breath caught in her throat as he leaned over his body, reaching the razor around to his left ear-

"If you would make haste, you'll be commended, good barber." Richard said, lifting a finger and opening his eyes a bit. Violet jumped, the tension breaking by his ignorance. Mr. Todd retracted, a flash of anger crossing his features before regaining his tight composure.

"Who may it be said is your intended?" he asked, continuing the conversation, throwing off suspicion. Violet bit her lip; she hadn't had the chance to tell him of the Judge's intentions to marry his daughter… she prayed his rage would be subtle, at least for the moment.

Richard settled back into the chair, his eyes closing once again, "My ward… and pretty as a rosebud, she is."

Her throat closed at his next response through clenched teeth, "Pretty as her mother?"

_You Fool! _She spat inwardly, it would _not _be ended here and now, not when her brother-in-law was only inches away from his end! She found herself squeezing the cross around her neck, the shape denting itself into her palm.

"What? What was that?"

"Nothing! Please proceed! Which cologne did you request, my lord? French? Yes it was French." Violet's voice came higher than usual, as she leaned off the desk and lifted each of the colored bottles in turn. If he would only relax for a moment or two, it would be quick and quiet; and she exhaled as the quiet scraping sound announced Sweeney's work as he shaved.

"Tell me more about this young lady," the barber said calmly, wiping the excess cream on the cloth at his belt.

"Johanna… pretty little Johanna, beautiful woman." Richard purred, "Long yellow hair and pale white skin; like a fragile bird. She sings to herself as she reads and writes… she has a lovely voice, as well…"

Violet wrinkled her nose in disgust; that poor little girl, trapped with that snake since childhood. She could only imagine the kind of mistreatment she'd suffered at the hand of this Judge Turpin... but soon her agonizing would cease. Mister Todd worked slower, the sadness in his limbs making them weighted and heavy, of course he was thinking the same as she, "Woman are indeed fascinating, even when they aren't with you, their presence is fresh in your mind."

Richard sighed in comfort, relaxed under the cotton sheet that covered his body. Violet smiled as she pushed off the desk and around to the front; she wanted nothing short of the front row for Richard's final performance.

"I'm sure you will make her happy…" Sweeney continued, reaching around Richard's neck, ready to draw a wide, yawning smile against his throat. Her heart beat in her ears.

_Goodbye, brother-in-law._

The door burst open behind them, followed by a rushed excited voice, "Mr. Todd! I've just been to see Johanna and she said she'd leave with me tonight…"

The sailor's voice faded away as he identified the man in the chair, his hair still wet from the heavy rain that was pouring outside. The barber withdrew his razor as the Judge got to his feet, pushing the florist out of his way, a scowl of rage on his thin lips.

"_You…" _He tore off the sheet, wiping away the white that still clung to his cheeks, "There is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time…" Antony backed up against the doorframe, fear springing to his eyes.

_No…_

"Johanna, elope with you?" Richard howled at the thought, throwing the cloth to the floor in his anger. "I'll make sure you, nor shall any other man ever set eyes on her again!"

_No..._

"As for you, barber," Richard whirled on the two, pointing viciously, "it's all too clear what company you keep! You and your… whore!" he spat, gnashing his teeth at the woman, who barely heard him, her eyes focused only on the razor clenched firmly in Todd's grasp.

_No!_

He yanked his coat off the hook and stormed out of the shop, "Service them well and hold their custom, for you'll have none of mine!" he slammed the door shut, the bell flying off the iron handle.

Antony stood a moment before taking a breath and walking to the barber pleadingly, holding out his hands in prayer, "Mr. Todd you have to help me, please."

_NO!_

"Get out…" Violet snarled beneath her breath, throwing the young, ignorant fool a dark glare. She almost lunged at him with gnashing teeth.

He backed up a bit, eyes wide, "Please Miss Blackwell-"

"_OUT_!" The barber bellowed, taking threatening steps forward; the boy jumped backwards, skittering like a rat out the back door. He stared after the lad, the anger and rage building up inside like an inferno.

The stupid _stupid _boy had ruined everything!

Nellie ran inside, closing the door behind, "What's all this shouting and running about! What's happened?"

"I had him…" Mister Todd muttered, disbelief marking every line on his face.

"The sailor busted in, I know, and then I saw them both running down the stairs-" She continued jabbering, but this time, Violet couldn't stand for it.

"You did nothing?" She threw her arms up in the air, "he was here! It could have been done with! Now he'll never come again!" Half of her wanted to tear Nellie to pieces, but the rational side knew that her friend was not at fault. The baker took careful steps toward her and placed a comforting hand on her back; but she shook it off, now was not the time for consolation.

"He'll never come again…" Mr. Todd repeated, stalking to the window and slamming his open palm against the glass, the frame shaking slightly. "I _had _him!"

Eleanor tried again, "There, there, dear-"

"No, _I HAD HIM!" _he snarled, pacing the room like an angry tiger. Violet hid her face in her palms, wishing it would all end like an aggravated nightmare. He'd been here! Not moments ago! She could still smell his foul cologne.

"Please calm down-"

"You warned me to be patient, Mrs. Lovett, and now what?" he barked, his hands twitching by his sides as if he ached to strike her. Hurt flashed across her face as she backed away. "Don't you see? He'll never come again!"

Eyes narrowed at her, the barber returned to the window, glaring down at the humans who wandered about on the street like insects. Miss Blackwell had never seen him so angry before, half expecting him to shed his human flesh to reveal a demon beneath; thirsty for blood.

"Look at them…" he murmured lowly, voice so different from his own, "filthy scum, all of them! Not just the boy, or the Judge, everyone hides their sins to appear acceptable. The high powers of this city are all corrupted, no, not just the high powers but the lower ones as well. Fools! They're all going to hell for what they've done! They all deserve to die!"

Nellie gripped Violet's arm, fear etched into her brown eyes on every level; she was scared of him. Violet couldn't deny she was frightened as well, but… somehow his words made perfect sense. And in her delirium wretched with rage, she could only praise the words that left his fanged mouth. What was it Richard and the Beadle had discussed?

_Was he guilty?_

_Well if he wasn't, he must have done something to warrant a hanging._

_What man has not...?_

What man has not committed a crime worth showing the world? Hiding is what people do best, is it not? Hide their lies, hide their lusts, hide their bloodshed… all of it is disgusting, and Richard the worst of it. All men sin, this is not a hidden fact; people cherish it in their churches, worship it in their bibles, in the cross that she wore around her neck. People believe in God and in their scientific theories, but there is truth that none can deny, all men deserved to die.

And Richard had escaped his death so easily.

"The lives of the wicked should be brief;" she whispered lowly, "Richard escaped his by a thread! For the rest of London out there, death would be… a mercy." Nellie shot her an alarmed look, but Violet ignored it, she wouldn't understand. Nellie had always fed off the superficial fluff the world had to offer, though a kind woman Nellie was, she couldn't see people this way.

Mr. Todd approached the two women, brandishing his razor in Nellie's face, she flinched, whacking her head against the wall behind her, "And you Mrs. Lovett, ending your life would be a blessing, as well as Violet's… but I'll never see my daughter again! I can grant her this mercy from abroad by slaughtering him!" He wandered back towards the window, pacing back and forth wildly.

"Slaughtering Turpin…" he muttered, smiling a little in spite of his rage, just for the sound of it on his lips, "is the only thing keeping me from taking a razor to my own throat… and while I wait, I'll practice on the less honorable."

Bloodlust.

"Anyone that comes through those doors…" he pointed with the blade, pure appetite for murder sparking behind his eyes, "I will have them for my own! I will get him back… I swear it! He took my Lucy from me…" his arm dropped as his gaze followed to the photo sitting on the stand, "she's gone… lying in a heap of ashes somewhere in this filthy city."

Todd smiled then, a smile that expressed not happiness, but despair and anger and something altogether inhuman, "But now it begins… I have work to do."

* * *

**A/N: **

**Please review :D.**

**.ivory.**


	9. Chapter 9: The Price of Meat

**A/N:**

**Hey guys.**

**This chapter is one of the most important in the whole story, and I wanted it to be acceptable. Especially since i can't put in the singing and dancing that's in the movie, i hope this is alright. Also, this chapter is rated M for Violence.**

**And without further ado!  
**

**.ivory.**

* * *

chapter ix

The Price of Meat

"…_I have work to do."_

These words were burned in her mind, plastered to the backs of her eyelids with the image of his maddening smile. Crooked, with his lips pulled back over his teeth and skin tightened across his jaw; clenched so tightly the muscles were jumping. Her memory took a snapshot of it; and placed it in the new accumulation of thoughts and actions.

In one corner of her mind, remained the memories of Isabel Turpin:

Warm colored; happy memories filled with Nate, Shakespeare, and garden roses… But the edges were covered with dust, weathered by age and spattered with her husband's blood. She cast them aside, eyes coming to rest on her former self, but Isabel was a faded photograph, and she belonged with the other misguided ghosts. The florist was dead, put to the cold ground; and Violet Blackwell was born on an old merchant ship branded by the devil.

The other collection of thought belonged to Violet, and was much more recent; but the longer she scanned them… the more infuriated she became.

Image after image of Todd fell from her fingertips: memories of their meeting on the docks and the softness in his eyes as he was reunited with his razors. The barber had examined the cross at her throat, and the murder of a fraud as he opened a wide slit in his neck; blood spurting like rain. The clear anticipation pouring off him as he leaned over Richard was clearly imprinted as well, and the newest… his words reverberating against the inside of her skull:

"…_I have work to do."_

She could still see his lips forming the word… but she was a fool; selfish and needy. The only reason this man was forever in her thoughts was her loneliness, right?

"…What do you want?"

Violet snapped out of these thoughts; Mr. Todd's eyes were narrowed in annoyance, a shot glass hovering around his lips.

Apparently she'd been staring. Disgusted with herself, she flinched away, studying the frayed ends of her dress, "…Sorry."

The three accomplices had left the upper floors of the building and wandered downstairs; Mr. Todd immediately pouring himself a glass of gin. It was as if his declaration of bloodshed had taken all the strength away from him, and only drink could cool the fire.

Nellie stood over a bowl of mystery meat, slowly stirring the glop with a wooden ladle, her gaze fixed to the doorway leading to the back room. She'd found Toby there before the hearth, asleep with the bottle of alcohol under his arm. A part of Violet felt bad for him, and the pounding headache he'd wake with, in a few hours.

"Now… what are we gonna do about Moldy, rotting away upstairs?" Eleanor mumbled, plucking up the almost empty bottle of liquor and pouring Mr. T another shot. Before she could conceive what she was doing, Violet reached across the table and stole the glass, downing it in one burning gulp. Her expression soured in pain as she attempted to rid herself of the taste.

"'Thought you didn' drink." Nellie commented.

"I don't," she coughed, eyes watering, "pour me another one, please."

Nellie did so, sliding it across the table, "What d'you propose we do about him anyway? The Italian, bloke."

Mr. Todd took the glass from Violet's cold fingers and downed it, glaring at her all the while; apparently he was miffed she'd taken it in the first place. "Later on, when it's dark… we'll take it to some secret place and bury it…"

_Such dark conversation for light actions_… she thought as Mister Todd swallowed, a slight grimace flickering across his face before regaining his calm composure. Eleanor sighed and placed her chin in her hands; lifting the ladle into the air, and allowing the liquidized meat to plop back down into the bowl. "Yeah… 'course we could do that…"

"You disagree?" Violet asked airily, watching Sweeney glare at the empty bottle of alcohol. "What do you propose? Dump him in the river?"

The baker shrugged, pulling back the lacy curtains to watch the people crossing the street. She did this often, as if her lonely figure beyond the glass would be enough for a few hungry customers. It was more an act of habit than anything.

"I'm not opposed to it…" she mumbled, "Don't suppose 'e's got any relatives that's gonna come pokin' around looking for him…"

That was true; a confidence man wasn't going to have any family that supported him in his fault. The barber flipped the shot glass upside down on the table; the dregs tracing their way down onto the wood. He sneered at it.

"Seems a downright shame, y'know…" Nellie said quietly, her brown eyes wide as they fixed on something outdoors. "An awful waste he'd have to go away like that…"

Violet shot her a look, was she saying it was a shame Pirelli had to die? Mr. Todd didn't seem to be paying any attention, a pensive expression on his face. "Shame?" he mumbled.

"He's a nice plump frame, 'e has, an' he can't be traced…" She continued, turning her calm gaze on the barber, calculating as an idea formed in her head; Violet could almost see the gears turning.

"What are you saying?"

Nellie formed her words loudly, as if increasing the volume would make her meaning clearer, "Business has been dead for a while; and it is quite… crude, but it's like a gift, just havin' him up there an' all!"

They looked up at her blankly.

Tossing her hands in the air, Eleanor started pacing on the spot, her words coming spilling out of her mouth so fast it was hard to understand, the florist was vaguely reminded of an angry cat, "Seems an awful waste doesn' it? Especially with the price of meat, these days, an' times is hard-"

"W-wait, a moment," Violet got to her feet and waved her hands around in order to stop her; the thought was certainly crude, barbaric even. All the morbidity seemed to be going to her heady, "you don't mean…?"

"Ah…" Mister Todd said, rising to his feet with a smirk on his face; was he really… this… what?

Nellie kept her eyes towards the floor as her pacing quickened, excitement grew, "It's undetectable, if we used them-"

"Forgive me if I'm wrong," the florist interrupted, the query causing an uneasy laugh to escape her lips, "are you suggesting using Pirelli's body as… meat?"

Nellie pointed at her as she finally caught on, a smile curving her lips, "Think about it! Lots of other gentlemen will soon be coming for a shave, won' they? Think of all them pies!"

Violet backed up a bit, her brows furrowed as she processed the proposition before her; cooking people into pies… and feeding them back to the public…

_ Cooking_ people into pies!

The immediate response was disgust, outrage, and fear. How had this thought even entered Eleanor's mind? Her stomach rebelled at the thought of customers coming back for seconds and thirds, bringing their family and friends; not even knowing they were feasting on their neighbors. Perhaps the men would see the shop upstairs and pay a visit, never to return in one piece. More would come every day, supplies increasing… their popularity growing with every plate of meat… gaining the attention of London itself...

Now that she thought about it…

"These are desperate times, Ms. Blackwell, and desperate measures are called for." Mr. Todd said slowly, seeing the doubt lingering in her eyes.

Perhaps this wasn't such an abhorrent idea…

The part of her revolting against this horrifying conception could only belong to Isabel and her fear of the butcher shop. Her fear of the bloodless sacks of meat, though belonging to an animal, were more frightening than other such things. But she wasn't Isabel, and weren't they dealing with animals themselves? Poisoning whores and grime of the cobblestones.

"_The lives of the wicked should be brief; for everyone else, death would be a mercy…"_

Hadn't she said that, only hours ago? These persons would die anyway, along the barber's bloody path, so why shouldn't their deaths be a help to their unholy cause? The idea ran through her mind like a drug, infecting every corner, mugging out the images of Isabel and highlighting those of Violet.

"It is perfect, Eleanor…" she uttered, possibilities flourishing in her head, "how appropriate a notion!"

Nellie bowed dramatically as Mister Todd ducked his head in assent, satisfied that she'd come to agree with their mad but impeccable plan. He walked to the window and stared out at the passing people, shoulders relaxed. For the first time, his mood was neither brooding nor planning; something sparking behind his eyes as he smirked in pleasure.

"The history of the world is those below serving those up above. How gratifying, to know that this time… the high admirals, and lawyers, judges, and priests will feed the lower rats of London." He finished, relish spilling out of every pour.

"Everybody shaves; there should be more than enough flavors!" Violet said quietly, her hand pressed to her forehead in thought. This was insane, but unnoticed and ultimately unchangeable as it helped them take quick leading steps towards the Judge's doorstep, "The more people that come… supply Mrs. Lovett, and in turn feed the customers. Surely Turpin will not ignore the shop as it grows with popularity, yes? Of course we will have the lower class, but it will take time before the higher arrive…"

Mister Todd gave a rare chuckle, reminding her of her father, "My dear Miss Blackwell, have charity towards the city. We will take those who come in through our doors, not discriminating between the high-power and low."

_My dear Miss Blackwell…_

"… Of course," Violet replied indignantly, his endearing tone catching her off-guard in his brief amusement, "I did not mean we should go out to the street and drag people inside. Merely seek out the ones who will not be missed."

Sweeney nodded his head to the former florist, relenting, his mood fixed in slight humor. Violet liked him this way, she decided; calm, but not in a menacing way, and so comfortable from the anger and blood hungry way he'd demanded before. He was confident in the path set before him.

And she couldn't help but feel the same.

* * *

_A sob tore out of her throat, accompanying the hot tears that poured down her cheeks like rain. Isabel couldn't place why she was crying or how long ago it had started, but her eye sockets felt bruised and blackened with grief. Hands clawing at the moist dirt, soil caking beneath her nails and ingraining themselves in her mourning dress. She did not care, and could not; nothing but the seeds in her palm made the difference now. But why wasn't this working!_

_Gardening had always held a sort of therapy for her, quiet whispers leaping from her lips as she told the buds her troubles. But today it couldn't be helped, and the violets she begged to rise only stared at her deadly; as if they too couldn't find joy in sunlight. _

"_I-Isabel?" a quiet voice whispered._

"_Please leave," she croaked, trying her best to sound neutral and failing miserably, "The violets are sleeping with the roses…" smoothly opening divots in the dirt and tucking the seedlings inside. Her mother sighed exasperatedly, and placed a wrinkled hand on her shoulder._

"_Please… darling… you need to let go. Nathaniel is gone-"_

"_Quiet!" the girl snapped, clenching her filthy hands at her sides, "This isn't about … Nate." His name hurt to whisper, hurt to think; hell below, everything hurt. "How can you stand idly by and allow Richard to go? He _murdered _him." Her jaw clenched together, lips slightly curled._

"_Isabel, we have talked about this-_

"_We've talked of nothing!" Isabel sobbed, a spray of soil launching into the air from her encrusted palms._

"_You are not even supposed to be here," her mother said gently, running her fingers softly through her daughter's hair. This comfort was wasted; nothing in the world could replace this urge to wrap her hands around a man's throat and ring him like a chicken. "If it weren't for that kind friend of your father's, you would be… quite hung by now. Just live your life! Yes, Richard was at fault and a fool, but you must never return to London!"_

_Mrs. Turpin leaned back on her knees, staring up at the bright sun until it hurt, "I do not expect you to understand, Mother… but Father was taken from you as well, by his own hand, no less. But if you could get back at that rotten part of him… the piece that drove him to pull the trigger, would you?"_

_She remained silent._

"_I would." Isabel breathed._

_And that was why the next morning, unbeknownst to her mother's sleeping form, Isabel crept out of the house, taking one last look at the violet's growing in her back garden. _

"…_Violet…" she said, nodding her head slowly, "…Violet..."_

_And she ran to the harbor where the merchant ship tarried._

* * *

Nellie shrugged into a large white apron, tying the backs into large loose bows; she was trembling, her cheeks tinted a light pink. "I'm downstairs, love… If you need me." She said quietly, and yanked open the door to the basement and descended the stairs.

Violet stared after her, bile rising in her throat and pressing to the backs of her teeth; this was foul, filthy to the highest degree. She was glad Nellie hadn't asked her to join in the … baking of a street con; surely it was a weighing job, but she knew, she would never cut up a body for consumption. It was funny to think that only days ago this man had been alive, breathing, dressed in his ridiculous blue suit.

Unable to bear it, Violet left the baker to her work, while she cowered in her bedroom, trying not to think about the sins of the bake-house below.

"Miss Blackwell." There was his low voice from beyond her locked door, followed by three sharp wraps on the wood. She jumped, rolling off the mattress and smoothing the fabric of Eleanor's coal-colored dress. Violet frowned… she could have been in mourning.

"One moment," she called, finding her feet stumbling to the broken mirror and casting a quick look inside, immediately disgusted with herself that she did. Sighing, Violet pulled the key from the desk top and inserted it into the lock, twisting slowly.

Todd glared at her from the other side, standing solidly with his hands relaxed at his sides, "…There is a man here to see you." He said, "Some fisherman."

Her brows furrowed, "Fisherman?"

"Is the lady back there?" a voice boomed from around the corner, Violet bit her lip in confusion… she didn't know any fisherman… Did she?

The barbers' eye twitched in annoyance, "Deal with him, send him away, do what you will; just get him out of my shop… please." Turning on his heal, the man barged back into his bedroom and closed the door with a quiet grunt.

A mental war waged inside her as she stared at the closed entrance, the loud breathing of an old man echoing around the corner; whoever this stranger was, he was waiting for her and hiding was only delaying the inevitable. Shuddering slightly, the lady turned the corner, her arms folding around her middle.

In the barber chair sat a gray-haired man, his hand tapping out a rapid tattoo against his dirty trousers, a rusty metal box balanced on his knee. He wore an old gray sweater wrapped around his overweight body, frayed and damp from the rain sprinkling out the window. He looked up as she entered and broke into a toothless grin.

"_This ole' place used t'be a flower shop. But I guess the owners up and left one day. All the plants died, jus' sitting there without any care. 'Was pretty sad, M'um."_

"Ah…" she said aloud, realization setting in as she identified the decrepit fisher from the pier, the new owner of her flower shop, _'Courtesy of Judge Turpin.'_ "What can I do for you?" she mumbled, with only a slight sneer.

He got to his feet, knees creaking in protest, "Miss Blackwell," he said in his gravelly voice, "I been lookin' all over th' place for you."

She glared at him in outrage, "Looking for me? What do you want?

He held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head of the silly grin that crinkled his face, "Calm down, calm down, lovely. I jus' came t' give you somethin'." He turned back to the chair and lifted up the small rusted case, patting it lovingly.

She narrowed her eyes at it, half expecting a body part or something just as grisly hidden inside. "What is it?"

He held it out to her gingerly, and she took it with two fingers, still unsure of the contents. Forcing open the hardcover latch, a cloud of dust erupted from the inside and she coughed, covering her face. Once the plume cleared she could get a clear view of the objects inside.

A rusty pair of shears, dulled by years without use.

A hand held spade, flaking bits of red.

She stared at them, blood pounding in her ears.

"It's been years since tha's been open. I didn' want t' clean them without your permission, mind."

Shock spilled in her veins like poison, rushing to her head as she tried to catch her breath; how could this be? Reaching in a shaking hand, Violet plucked up the spade and turned it over in her hands, setting the box on the ground. "…W-Where did you get these?"

He smiled a little, scratching the back of his balding head, "When th' Beadle gave me th' stand, and all the dead flowers were taken away… I found these in the back. For some reason, I couldn' get rid of 'em."

Violet turned the spade over in her hand, thirteen years of dirt and rust falling to the floor; so many memories lied with this object. Every single one of them painful and unwanted. It used to be her mother's, gifted to her when she dedicated her life to Father's 'recovery.'

How this fisher had found her… identified her… and _sought her out _was a mystery that only a madman could solve. If it was this easy to find the woman, how long would it be before Richard found her? Unless this man was working for the Judge… then she was trapped; her eyes widened in alarm.

He must have seen it, "Oh no, Miss, relax… Please don' be scared." He held a thick finger to his lips, taking slow steps towards her shaking figure, "I'm not gonna find ya' out." He whispered.

She stood motionless, stomach flipping and gooseflesh breaking out along her arms, the spade held in her hands like some sort of gift. "What do you want of me?" she hissed. "Who are you really?"

He held out his hand, as if wanting her to take it, but she wouldn't … the hair rising on the back of her neck.

He smiled again, his lips twisting upwards, "You're father was one o' my best friends… Isabel. Tha's your real name, ain't it? Lil' Isabel Redwood."

"I don't remember you." She squeaked.

"I'm sad you don', lovlie-"

"Stop calling me that-"

"-you're Papa was smart, but lost 'imself down the bo'om of a bottle. 'e owed me a fair amount of money, 'e did, but I forgave 'im. Again an' again, I forgave him. But then I met you… Well, I saw you… watering daisies with your little yellow watering can…"

He could only be feet away now, but he seemed to be miles. The fisherman's words clouded everything else; Father owed him money? What could he possibly owe? And somewhere in the back of Violet's mind, she could see the yellow watering can her father had given her in her youth.

"But then the ring got on yer finger, an' you killed yer husband… an' you looked so sad all caged into that box… I had to let ya' out." He uttered, a sob rising in his throat.

The guard.

The guard that set her free.

How could the chances be so against her?

She could almost see him within the guise of the old man; quite a bit thinner, a full head of hair only just beginning to gray. The uniform pressed tightly to his body as he stared down at her with concern, his face had been shadowed by the dark prison, madness hidden for the moment as he contained his distress. Isabel had refused to look at him, still in her thin nightdress and too shocked to cry. All she could remember, behind the smell of piss and mold, were mumbled words repeated lowly and endlessly beneath her bated breath.

_Nate is dead…_

_Nate is dead…_

_Nate is dead…_

_Richard murdered him._

After that the jail door had been thrown open, rusted hinges shrieking against the steel. The guard had grabbed her roughly and shoved her through the back door, "Don't come back." He'd ordered. And she ran, harder and faster than ever before until she stumbled, with bloody bare feet and tear streaked cheeks into the harbor, where she stowed away on a steamer heading for New York. A month later, her mother joined her, alerted by a letter carried in the pocket of a trusted stranger.

"An' then you was gone…" he frowned, taking a shuddering breath as he struggled to compose himself, "But I kept the spade an' the shears… " He pointed at them, as if she couldn't see them, and that's when she could see the madness in his eyes. He tore at his hair and fell to his knees, unmistakable tears streaking down his cheeks.

A shiver spiraled down her spine, as if she'd swallowed an ice cube… as he crawled across the wooden floorboards to her boots. Where had this man lost himself? Years ago, she thought, madness always seemed to creep up on people.

He was yelling now, voice cracking as he howled in grief, "But-But then… a few days ago… you came back! You came back home from w-wherever ya left! I didn' recognize you at firs'… you're so different than b'fore... sadder… _That's _why I didn' recognize ya'! You wasn' smiling the way you did b'fore!"

He looked up at her, aberrant eyes dim and unfocused, "I brought you th' spade an' th' shears so you could make flowers again! Be happy again!" he collapsed once more, sobs wracking through him like tremors, his hands clutching at the folds of Nellie's dress. "I only want you to be happy…"

"S-Silence!" she stuttered, wanting more than anything to kick him away but not having the will to do so. He was ripping up old wounds again, memories of past days and bringing these damned tools back into her life! He scared her more than anything she'd ever encountered; fear pooled in her veins like poison, adrenaline flooding her mouth. The fisherman struggled to his feet, stumbling, clawing at his tear stained face.

There was no rational thought, only blind fear and panic, anger that rooted through her system and maximized in her right hand. Fingers enclosed on the handle of the spade as her deranged and panicked mind made the decision for her.

Unfreezing from her immobile state of shock, Violet drew back her hand and plunged the spade hilt deep into the fisherman's stomach. Life spurted from the tool in a flurry of scarlet, drenching her pale skin with red. The man doubled over, screaming himself hoarse, his chin coming to rest on her shoulder in some sort of perverse embrace. He wept, but refused to fight against her as he writhed, arms already too weak to force himself away; she stared blankly ahead, lips pursed in determination. He deserved to die, he _deserved _it! This madman had no will to live; only surviving on his sick fancies of her childish mind, and weak body. But she was not as weak as Isabel, not anymore.

But deep down, she realized she was only justifying this death.

Violet _wanted _to kill him.

She twisted the spade within his flesh, and he howled in response, a stream of begs and profanities twisting out his mouth. She stood silently as he bled to death, the garbled words turned to quiet gasps, and he fell to the floor, the final beats of his heart the only sound in the room.

Violet stood motionless, the spade held loosely in her red fingers. She stared at the fisherman, unable to take her eyes off of his corpse.

Murdered.

She'd murdered.

Was she supposed to feel guilt? Malice? A moment ago she'd been so hungry for his sweet death, but what remained was simply hollow. Violet searched herself for some kind of emotion, happiness? Grief?

_Something?_

The bloody spade fell to the floor, clanking loudly. No, she didn't feel anything. 'Couldn't' would be a better word.

And that was the first time Violet wondered if she was mad.

* * *

**Please review, it means a lot! New chapter soon!**

**.ivory.**


	10. Chapter 10: Satisfied Enough to Dream

**A/N:**

**Hey there, Happy Chapter Ten! Thanks for the reviews and favorites and such. They really make my day. Im a little uneasy about this chapter, so i would really love some feedback. :D.**

**Without further ado!  
.ivory.**

* * *

chapter x

Satisfied Enough to Dream

_Benjamin was always so kind… _

Solitude can do terrible things to people; ravage their mind from the inside and tear their psyche to shreds. Eleanor knew that better than anyone, but there was a sort of determination behind her ever moving fingers that caused her to forget. At least for a moment. A moment experienced and deserved for the loneliness she'd suffered.

_He was shy… but it only made him more endearing…_

Nellie was a strong woman; who else would have the will to sit in their basement with butcher knife in hand, staring at the body waiting to be cut up? She surely couldn't think of anyone. Not even Violet would have the stomach for this sort of job, she could see it in her face the moment she'd descended the stairs. Cheeks pale white and fright clearly written in her cool blue eyes; no, she couldn't have done it. Eleanor, in response, had tried to seem calm, nonchalant about her deed, but as always her emotions betrayed her.

_He was a skilled sort of artist, but not prideful... humble. She liked that…_

It was all for him, she thought, squeezing her brown eyes shut; he would see that she can be useful and be grateful to her in return. And then… maybe Mr. Todd would return her love that she'd harbored for so many years…

_He was beautiful…_

* * *

Violet Blackwell stood motionless as the sun set below the thick clouds, casting the barber shop into a midnight gloom. She stared at the lifeless corpse of the man who, so many years ago, had saved her life. His body was crumpled into a heap, like a broken doll; jaw slack, eyes glassy, all traces of madness had melted away with his quickly evaporating spirit. The fisherman's blood was pooled around her feet, seeping into her boots.

He was starting to smell.

And there was nothing… absolutely no emotion coursing through her heart. For the first time in years she felt a strong urge to cry, the sweet release of giving up completely. But no matter how much she wanted to, tears refused to come; it was born from years of practice, and now even she couldn't reverse its affects. Slowly, with shaking fingers, she lifted her hands up to the quickly fading light, the blood still clearly visible. It hadn't felt so hollow when Pirelli's life had been cut short, but there had been a sort of accomplishment there, beating back against a blackmailer, but now…

Why had she _really _killed this man?

A tearless sob bubbled in Violet's throat as she forced herself to accept it. She had done it just for the sake of driving his spirit from his body with a wrathful lust.

Just because she had wanted to.

And that scared her more than anything.

Violet lifted her red fingers to her lips, allowing a few drops of blood to trickle onto her tongue, salty and growing steadily cooler. She shut her eyes, utterly terrified of her capable madness.

"You look cold."

Violet ripped her eyes open, biting down on her fingers as she caught sight of the barber in the doorway, his face calm, but grim. She wondered how long he'd been standing there. Minutes? Hours? It felt like years since the moment she'd plunged the deadly end of a spade into a madman's belly.

"I'm not." The florist croaked, which was a lie, she was freezing.

For a moment it looked as though he would step forward, or wrap ungrateful arms around her shaken figure. But no, Sweeney Todd would never do something like that, he was a demon, and demons don't comfort fearful murderers. Instead he stared at her, arms folded, brow lowered; as if waiting for her to express just how raving mad she could be.

With a small noise of distress, Violet ripped her fingers out of her mouth, cleaned of claret.

Yet the silence stretched on, and he showed no signs of breaking it.

For the first time, she allowed herself to truly examine him: the curve of his thin mouth, and cheek bones that could be made of marble; all beneath the dominant feature of his coal black eyes. She thought he must get tired of always appearing both infinitely grim and infinitely bitter all at once. But knew immediately that he had no choice, fallen prey to a grief that could not be lifted; no matter how long he lived.

There was something heavy in his gaze, as if he were trying to figure her out, understand her like no one else had; but annoyed that he couldn't see past her hard exterior. She felt a rush of longing, why couldn't she understand him either? Know him? Memorize the thoughts that ran through his head every day? And another painful realization that she wanted to know so desperately she'd die for it.

But _why?_

_Say something,_ she begged from her thoughts, _tell me it's not my fault. Tell me that I'm not mad, and I had a right to defend myself. That this man was nothing more than a threat against our plan. Tell me that everything's going to be alright, even though it's not. That abandoning this woman inside of me is useless because she doesn't exist anymore, that Isabel. _

_Heal me, Mr. Todd, even when we both know you're only capable of granting pain._

These thoughts heightened her fear; she _had _to be mad to think thoughts, and with a burst of frustration, she forced her way passed him, meaning to go directly into her room. If only she could get away from him-

His hand clamped down on her wrist, forcing her to a complete stop.

"Let go of me!" Miss Blackwell hissed pathetically, "Let me go, I said!"

He wouldn't, face calm and impassive as he stared down his nose at her. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before, something that both frightened and excited her all at once. Unfamiliar with this man was always something to be nervous about. Something to be feared; heaven above, this man was already damned by nature.

She struggled for a moment, but not for long. Violet found herself tugging halfheartedly away, her idiotic and foolish mind focusing only on how lovely his skin felt, and that she truly didn't mind him touching her.

And there was that unholy ache once more, that strange animal instinct where her body simply acted for her. No thought, no consequence, no meaning to her actions, just as she had towards the fisherman moments before she snuffed out his life. But this had different intensions, something that flowered in her chest like a seedling bursting into one complete decision.

Without her mind's consent, Violet stepped forward and pressed her lips against his.

She could feel the shock rush through his body so violently he released her wrist, arms outstretched at his sides like a guilty child. She squeezed her eyes shut, waiting, hoping he'd respond as she worked gently, without heat or impatience. The tension in the barber's arms was tangible, and she immediately suspected him to throw her off; to scream and curse at her for even daring to touch him so intimately.

But he didn't.

He simply let the kiss happen, neither responding nor rejecting; but allowed her to embrace him without alarm or anger. He was stiff, and uncomfortable, she could see that, and after a while she wrapped her arms around his neck; hoping to persuade him. The musty smell of wood and shaving cream wafted off his clothes and filtered around her, venting into her cells, and mixing with the slippery blood that copied itself onto his white shirt.

It could only have lasted a moment, but it felt like blissful hours.

_How long had it been since she'd felt so gentle, wanted this so freely?_ It felt nice for just this one moment, just this one taste of relief before she went back to slaughtering and killing and feeding the underlings their own flesh. When would this ever happen again?

"_When I return from the ordeal with Father, I promise. It will be a joy."_

…

Nate.

_Nate._

Violet leaned back, releasing herself, and after a brief pause, shoved him away violently; hands planted on his chest as he stumbled back a few steps. She grunted with the effort, anger exploding out of her eyes with the madness and disbelief of what she was doing.

Hell below, what had she been thinking!

Sweeney's brow furrowed in bewilderment, lips pressed together in a hard line as he seemed to come back to his senses. He opened his mouth to say something, an angry retort, she thought, or something just as bitter as he always had. She could tell from the outrage in his face. But she only pressed her fists into her mouth and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her.

Violet searched madly for the iron key, and upon finding it on the counter she reached for it; hands shaking so badly she dropped it to the wooden floor. He yelled something at her, but she didn't hear it.

_How could she do this!_

Violet crammed the key in the lock and twisted, throwing it to the floor as soon as it was secured. She bit her lip without mercy, anything to stop the tingling achieved from her ridiculous stunt.

_Didn't she love Nathaniel? Wasn't that why she was here?_

Violet stumbled her way to the bed, collapsing on the thin mattress as despair pressed down on her.

_You fool!_

* * *

_In the dream, Violet wandered along a never ending hallway._

_There was a plush red carpet beneath her bare feet, contrasting violently against the pale white of her flesh. The walls were made of thick wooden planks, splintering and hung with photos of families without faces. Briefly, she wondered who they were, and why they were without eyes to see, but then she forgot, and continued on her way._

_Eventually she stopped to access a doorway on her right._

_To her surprise she entered a place filled with flowers, and the sweet smell of early spring. Potted buds and rows of soft green plants, enjoying the sunlight that fell streaming in from the open sky; it was familiar in every sense of the word. Isabel's flower shop. _

_Ahead of her, she could see a tall man with curling black hair cut just above his ears, a single rose his hand as he plucked the petals from its stem. Beside him was a tall woman with light blond hair that fell to her hips in waves of sunlight, her white bonnet like a halo around her perfect face. A child was held in her arms, rocking slightly as it slept in silent bliss, despite her delighted laughter at something the man had said._

'_She's an angel,' Violet thought._

_But even as she watched the man crushed the bud in his hand, blood stemming from its core and drizzling down his hand as its life was stripped away. It was forgotten that the woman had a child, and suddenly her hands were empty; her life draining as fast as the rose itself. Her skin retracted, cheeks hollowing and eyes sinking far into the back of her head, hands became wrinkled and pained as they clutched at her chest. _

'_An Angel is dying,' Violet thought as she watched. _

_The pretty lady fell to the floor in a heap, her skin shriveling up to nothingness like an old grape until nothing remained but bleached white bones. The man stared down at her, a look of compete grief twisting his features beyond recognition, and threw the remains of the rose to the ground, resembling more of a bloody heart than a flower._

"_But true apothecary," he said softly, "thy drugs art quick… thus with a kiss I die."_

_Unable to take the sadness, Violet turned away, finding more interest back into the hallway, and shutting the door behind her. And after a moment, she forgot the scene entirely. _

_But it was not the hallway and its faceless portraits that she found herself, but in a butcher shop, red paint splattering the walls and a coppery smell coming to reach her nose. In the center of the room was a table, drenched in scarlet and hanging with an assortment of meats and other unidentifiable organs. Even as she watched, flowers and daisies and all other types of flowers sprung from the rotten flesh, flourishing to great heights and blooming like they never had before._

_A woman stood over them, a butcher knife in hand, chopping in a loud even succession. It was Nellie, she thought, or at least she guessed; it was hard to tell when everything seemed so red. Violet approached her slowly, unable to feel any fear for the disturbing display before her. _

"_These violent delights have violent ends," Eleanor said warningly, meeting Violet with bright burgundy eyes, "and in their triumph die, like fire and powder, which as they kiss consume." And with that she turned and lifted a tray full of raw meat, placing it into the oven behind her. Uncommonly hot flames spurted around her, singing the edges of her fraying dress._

_Violet cocked her head to the side, opening her mouth to reply but found she had no words. Nellie pointed across the room, and the lady turned to see what she referred too._

_In the corner of the shop rose an open grave, soft soil piled on all sides with a spade embedded within. Violet approached it curiously, squinting her eyes at the tombstone which on it read in bold script: _

_**She that is struck blind cannot forget the precious treasure of her eyesight lost.**_

_Violet peered into the grave, and for the first time since dreaming, found herself imbedded with a deep seeded fear. For inside the mass grave was Isabel, lying on her side, slightly curled, wrapped in her wedding dress. She was beautiful, with pale white skin and full lips, brown hair wild about the soil in which she was planted so delicately. Her pale blue eyes flashed open._

_Violet gasped and backed away, the back of her hand pressed to her lips in horror. So great was her fear, that it was remarkable that she remained asleep._

_Isabel rose to her feet, smiling in a way that she never would have smiled in life._

"_What are you doing, Violet? Why do you crave after him so? Meager are his looks, sharp misery has worn him to bones. He too is mourning his Angel, so should you do the same. But how have you forgotten Nathaniel so quickly? If you forget entirely, would you not murder Richard for his misdeed?"_

_It was then that Isabel began to cry, tears pouring down her porcelain cheeks like beads of clear glass; and it was a pain to see such a lovely creature weep. Violet backed away even further, tripping on the uneven soil; Isabel had never died, still alive after so long of thinking she was gone. Violet begged her dead._

_Isabel sobbed, "Why have you forgotten him!" Pointing a delicate finger, she indicated the tomb stone directly to her left, something that Violet had not noticed before._

_And there, sitting within the cold dirt was a slab of stone and engraved upon it were the words,_

_**I dreamt my lady came and found me dead.  
Nathaniel James Turpin**_

_It was then that Violet awoke screaming._

* * *

Violet Blackwell awoke with the moth-eaten pillow in her mouth, muffling her screams as she bit down on it with fear. As always, it took a few moments before she could face reality once more; a few moments before the sunlight streaming through the window seemed real, the cotton sheets beneath her sweaty fingers belonging to her sane mind.

The lady bit down on her tongue as she slowly rose to a sitting position, hands pressed to her temples as she willed her pulse to slow to a healthy speed.

What had that been? A nightmare, most assuredly, but even as she struggled to remember the details, they slipped through her fingers the harder she tried to grasp them. But she knew it had been fearful indeed. It had been a while since a terror of that magnitude had entered her mind, most likely stemmed from her panic attack that had gripped her before she fell into unconsciousness.

Upon remembering the waking world, she curled her legs up to her chest, wishing more than anything that the hours before had too been a meaningless nightmare. But the blood that stiffened Nellie's dress wouldn't fade, and the faint smell of his musty cologne on her collar only confirmed her fears.

Her hands transferred themselves to her eyes, squeezed shut.

What had she done?

She had kissed the Demon Barber of Fleet Street.

Slowly rocking back and forth, Violet sat, trying to figure out what would happen next. He was sure to be angry with her, furious, even. She wouldn't be surprised if he had decided to murder her upon their next meeting. But strangely, she couldn't feel fear at this realization; only a hollow knowledge that that was what she deserved; a bloody death for betrayal of Nate.

_Oh heaven above… Nate._

She sobbed openly, wishing she could remember how to cry. But after a long time of wallowing in her self pity, Violet swung her legs over the side of the bed. If she had to meet him once more, there was no delaying it…

Taking a shuddering breath, Violet walked to the door in her bare feet, bending over to retrieve the fallen room key. For a moment, she listened at the door, but no foot falls could be heard from beyond, neither from his room or the shop. Mouth set in a grim line; Violet unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking slightly.

Padding down the short hallway, she once again leaned an ear to his doorway, but nothing could be heard. She exhaled, perhaps he was asleep, it must be early in the day. Relaxing for the moment, she continued down the hallway into the open parlor where she froze.

Mr. Todd was seated at the desk, his wild black hair spiraling from his head in its usual disarray. She noticed he was still wearing the same clothes from last night, but more bloodied than she'd left it. And it took her another second to realize that the body of the fisherman was gone, and the pool of blood mopped from the wooden floor.

Had he dragged the heavy man all the way down the stairs? There was a brief moment where she remained impressed, until he spoke.

"You were screaming."

She jumped, a subtle touch of fear crawling up her spine the longer she stared at the back of his head. He seemed calm, if a bit strained; she took a few steps into the room.

"…Yes." She responded, and there was a long silence until she realized he was waiting for more, "… I had a nightmare."

He rocked to his feet, setting the photo frame back onto the desk, so he could face her. She hadn't noticed he'd been staring at it, the smiling expression of Lucy and Johanna staring at her, almost mockingly; she felt a brief stab of guilt.

He was glowering at her, eyes smoldering with a deep seeded look of general annoyance and worse… anger.

He was going to kill her.

Violet held her breath and waited for him to slash at her throat; cutting away her remaining life. She deserved it. The only reason she could accept this was her sure knowledge that he would finish the task of slaughtering Richard. He was clever enough that he could do it without any help, she was sure; and using her remaining faith she prayed that his ending might be good.

Without any warning whatsoever, the shop door swung open.

Eleanor sauntered inside; looking exhausted like Violet had never seen her. She had shed the white apron she wore earlier, but her hair was still pulled back tightly from her face, making her nose look more pointed than usual. She sighed, unaware of the tension that hovered in the air, and collapsed into the barber's seat, her palm pressed to her forehead as if she had a headache.

"…Needed a break," she muttered, "Jus' finished the first, and in the oven 'e went." She sighed again.

Violet let out the breath she had been holding; thankful her friend had suspended her death penalty. Mr. Todd fell back into the chair he had been seated in before, a rueful expression taking over his agitated features. Briefly, she wondered why he bothered hiding her death from Nellie.

Perhaps he didn't want to kill her after all…

"Violet!" Nellie exclaimed, catching sight of her ruined dress, "How many times did you stab the poor bugger? You can buy yer own dress, love, that's the last of mine you've stained."

Under better circumstances, Ms. Blackwell would have laughed at her pettiness.

Her lips wouldn't unglue to answer, lead still running through her veins. Eleanor waved her hand at her, as if tired with her excuses, "What's it so tense 'n here for? You two have a row?"

Violet looked at the floor while Mr. Todd continued to stare straight ahead, both too uncomfortable to answer. Eleanor sat up straighter, "Ah… well, the mood in 'ere isn' helping." She turned to Violet, "We should get somethin' in here to brighten up the place a tick; daisies maybe… or gillyflowers, something to relieve the gloom. What do you think?"

It amazed her out cheerful and carefree Eleanor could be, even under such caustic circumstances. Numbly Violet nodded, something in the back of her mind hitching at Nellie's words; and suddenly, a thought entered her head, though she couldn't place where it had come from.

"Eleanor… do you use… all of the pieces of the human body? What do you do with the rest?"

Nellie frowned, shrugging a little at the shift in conversation, "Other than the meat? Throw it out, I guess-"

"Yes, but where?" she pressed, an idea forming quickly. It was just as disgusting as the plan on the whole, but… if she were wrong about Mr. Todd's newest intensions to keep her alive, this might just stay his hand. It was blind hope, but perhaps it would work.

Nellie bit her lip, "What are you going on about, love?"

And, with great explanation, Violet unfolded her idea to the two of them. And after a few moments discussion, they agreed. And the plan would be put into effect immediately.

* * *

**Please Review! The quotes from the dream mostly are from Romeo and Juliet, I thought they would fit in nicely with her love of Shakespeare. Please please tell me what you think of this chapter; i was uneasy about it, but the romance angle had to come in somewhere, and i thought this appropriate. hopefully Mr. Todd is still in character. But we must all remember how he manipulates :]**

**EDIT: I changed a bit of the dream, finding some of the quotes to be overwhelming. It should flow better now, hopefully. :)**

**Again, Please review~**

**.ivory.**


	11. Chapter 11: Pretty Daisies

**A/N:  
AHGH!  
I'm so unbelievably sorry. D:  
This chapter would probably have taken a lot longer to write if I hadn't gotten the lovely encouragement from these two people right here:  
Dream'sRealm  
and MistroStrings  
Thanks for the confidence boost, guys, it means a lot :D. And all of your reviews are apprechiated and read. They make me feel SO good. :] ****Just so everyone knows, this is a dark chapter. Some people don't seem to realize that this is a dark story, and its only going to get crazier from here. I mean come on, this is Sweeney Todd, right? Right. :D Please tell me if I should adjust the rating, I'm still not sure on some stuff.**

**IMPORTANT A/N AFTER THIS LONG CHAPTER, PLEASE READ.**

**And without further ado !(because ive taken so long to update t-t)**

**.ivory.**

* * *

chapter xi

Pretty Daisies.

It was his idea to build the chair.

And her faith to use the bodies.

His was a brilliant notion, one only the barber could possibly dream up with his forceful way of thinking. Violet commended him for it, of course; the determination that drove him to such heights was admirable. When he wanted something, he fought for it and would do anything to see it through to the bloody end.

He was determined to finish it quickly, but his mindset was as passionless and blunt as ever, teeth gritted even in silence.

For two days Mister Todd suspended business, taking the risk of losing a few precious customers so he could work on the chair, his device child in a sort. And for two nights, Violet fell into the routine of burrowing herself beneath her pillow, breathing in the smell of decay as the sounds of hammering came from beyond the walls. Sawing, heavy breathing, and the occasional creaking of rusty metal kept her up until the early hours of the morning. Though she found she didn't mind much, since it seemed to lessen his furious behavior towards the occupants of Fleet Street.

When he wasn't busy, he snapped at Nellie, and irritable towards Toby when he dared speak up. The poor boy had seemed to have grown fearful of the man, and she couldn't blame him. As for Violet, he avoided her whenever possible and seemed it a great inconvenience when he was forced to speak to her. Quickly, the hope that he didn't wish her dead vanished from her mind completely. At any moment he seemed ready to slit her throat. And as a result she rarely left her room or the sitting area below when she could manage to slip past him without his poisonous glares following her back.

The florist couldn't help but feel that her foolish actions of the previous night had affected his foul mood.

In fact, of that Violet had no doubt.

In response to his choleric attitude, she could feel only bitterness. It was not as if she did not realize her mistake; no, that she could only pressure into herself. Better to feel anger towards him than those soft and feminine cravings that caused other women to blush and primp until their fingers bled. Much like Isabel and her burgundy cheeks: but if anything, Violet could only see red in response to the kiss, heightened by his rage.

But to distract herself from his biting mood, she worked to escape the gloomy barber shop.

The florist found herself once again, back with that spade in her hand and skin gritted with dirt. This was her idea, her plan, her conception. Her contribution to the devilish plan that the trio had mastered over the past weeks. No longer did she feel useless and weighted; a purpose to her existence had been born, it kept her hands working and her mind occupied from the things that gave her nightmares.

Nellie had clapped her hands in approval when the subject came into consideration, a grin on her face as she concluded that Violet was 'good to get her hands dirty.' Sweeney had frowned in thought, mulling it over in the back of his mind: considering consequences, actions, and her capability in the matter. But eventually she'd persuaded him to accept it, but part of her wondered if he'd agreed only to stop her talking.

Funny; when he seemed to want her gone so badly did she try her best to prove herself useful. It seemed even her subconscious still fought against his every whim.

And she labored through the night.

Violet had heard of farmers using blood and bone marrow to strengthen their crops. But then it couldn't have been _humans _that they supplied. But then again, these were desperate times as Mister Todd had put it so classically. But believing that the scattered and crushed remains of flesh had once been men made it so much more real. Men with beliefs and thoughts and actions. But ultimately in death they were presented the same as a cow or a pig; just another bag of bones.

This was all so mad. What monsters had they so willingly become?

It had been dreadfully hard in the beginning, to stop herself from recoiling from the remains. A human instinct resembling Isabel cringed at her sickening deeds. But it had to be forgotten, she couldn't keep clinging to that half of herself.

Mustering through the madness of her task, she mixed the remains with the moist soil and was surprised to find it was almost indecipherable from the dirt. Hopefully, she thought, once the flowers start to bloom and they began to grow, their scent would cover up the smell. Or perhaps she could pass it off as a special type of fertilizer? Yes, of course she could, Violet mused, sprinkling bits of water over the pots around her.

And she realized, for the first time in years she was enjoying herself.

Isn't that what the Fisherman had wanted?

"_I brought you th' spade an' th' shears so you could make flowers again... Be happy again! I only want you to be happy…"_

She supposed that in a skewed way… the man had gotten what he wanted.

How filthy they were becoming.

But even as Violet and Sweeney labored away on the upper floors of the shop; Eleanor and Toby were busy in the bake-house. Nellie's business had increased immensely over the past few weeks, reaching to two or three faithful customers that came as the sun rose in the morning. Though there weren't many hungry Londoner's pouring through their doors as of yet, she was sure their popularity was catching like wildfire. And as Violet paused, she could hear the sounds of laughter and raised voices filter from below.

"Toby! Ale over there, love."

"Yes, M'um!"

Violet watched from the window in amusement as the boy bounced from table to table, a white cloth thrown over his arm as he cleaned up pie plates and empty glasses of alcohol. His dark brown hair had become untamed and stuck out at odd angles, his cheeks pink from exercise. A small smile curled her lips as he joked with one of the men, taking his empty plate as he called for seconds, and perhaps thirds for his friend. How hurriedly they devoured their meat. She prayed the boy would never find out what he served with such zest.

Toby really was an adorable little boy, she thought idly, completely devoted to Nellie in every aspect, hanging on her every word with 'Mum', rolling so easily off his tongue. He saw her as his savior from the Italian and from the workhouse where he'd spent most of his orphaned life. What a dark past he must have, yet so joyful and carefree in the way he performed his daily tasks; and she found herself glad that Mr. Todd hadn't harmed him. Eleanor in turn adored the little boy, and though she tried to hide how much she loved him, it was obvious in the kind words she gifted him with. She cared for him like the son she never had.

Violet sighed, feeling the jealousy slowly eating away at her heart…

It wasn't a motherly affection she felt for Toby, she only associated with him when necessary. He made her uncomfortable with his complete loyalty for the baker. No, not uncomfortable: but an aching feeling she'd get in the pit of her stomach when he would suddenly run forward and hug Nellie around the middle. And the way she would smile in return, gently patting him on the head.

A sour taste would flood her mouth and she'd look away in regret. If only Nate had lived, they could have had a boy of their own. Or perhaps a little girl… she would have loved that…

A child…

Gritting her teeth and forcing back a choke of regret, Violet lifted her spade and dug it into the soil, beginning what would be another sleepless night…

* * *

After a few days of silence, Violet rose early in the morning to see exactly the something she'd been praying for. The heads of tulips that sprouted from the dirt were fresh and brimming with life. Perhaps it was the years of darkness, or the unusual addition to the soil, but she couldn't remember the last time she'd seen anything so green.

A smile broke out on her lips with the utter bliss that spread through her body. It seemed that she still was capable of something. She could remember this feeling from before, in the days when this was a daily occurrence; but it had never felt so rich before. Like someone had cut away the rotten parts of her for only a minute in order to let something fresh and sweet to linger on her skin. And suddenly she was caught up in the emotion that she needed to tell someone of her accomplishment, anyone really. Someone to share in this little success was all she wanted.

Violet rushed to the door, the ridiculous grin still spreading on her lips; she, who was so blind with elation, stepped right into Sweeney's open path.

Apparently he'd been leaving his room at the same time, and tripped on her boot, hands slamming themselves against the wall in order to regain his balance.

Violet squeaked and backed up in surprise, an apology spilling out her mouth.

Mister Todd stood there a moment, palms pressed against the wallpaper, seething anger coiling off of him like black smoke. She'd forgotten his rotten mood, and would pay for it dearly.

"You are prone to clumsiness, Ms. Blackwell." He grumbled, hands balling up into fists as he pushed himself away from the wall. With this disgruntled offense on her character she folded her arms defiantly. He frightened and angered her all at once; but she was so tired of his anger. Tired of his avoiding her at all costs. This foolish man would be the death of her, she knew, but that wouldn't stop her stubborn response from crawling out her lips.

"If you were not in the way so often, perhaps I would not be so clumsy, Barber."

Perhaps she should have stayed silent.

He shot her a dark glare, his teeth audibly grinding together out of his suppressed rage. Violet wanted to shrink away from his expression immediately, looking as if he wanted to either laugh or maliciously strike her until she bled. She didn't look away from him, mirroring his gaze with a glare of her own; she couldn't let him see how frightened she was. How close she thought he was to slitting her throat and ending her pathetic existence.

In a small way, it would be a blessing; an act of Hate greater than any sort of Love.

After a long time of glaring at one another, he gave a frustrated sigh and turned away, stomping down the hallway and back into the shop. Had she really won that stand off? She stared after him, the glare falling away from her eyes, and followed silently.

Love? Where had that thought come from? If the florist knew anything, it was her knowledge that she didn't love this man. In fact the thought made her want to spit. But where had that bizarre and distasteful thought spawned?

A moment of hatred.

A moment of fear.

Both can be so much stronger than any sort of companionship that the Barber and Florist could surmise. For them both, there was no way to ever create anything of the sort again. Love… Love came with death, sadness, and longing. A terrible sort of feeling that seemed to cause more grief than happiness. But because it was gone was a reason to avenge it; it left scars on them. Nothing can go deeper or taste as sweet as Love's thorns.

Violently shoving these thoughts away, Violet forced herself to focus on the barber shop. It was cleared of slates of wood and cogs and other such tools that Mister Todd had been using for his invention. But now that she thought about it, where had he gotten those appliances in the first place? The thought of him down in the square again, tugging away the tools from some unsuspecting mason wandered in her head. It was almost a reason to laugh or back away in fear. She decided she'd rather not know the truth.

"Did you complete the chair?" she asked hoarsely, gesturing to the seat in the center of the room.

It was larger, with plush cushions and a high back, curling wooden arms made of rich dark wood. But the gears and levers cleverly placed just beneath the cushion took away any normalcy the chair might have had. That, and the legs were bolted to the floorboards. On the ground, working away from the mechanisms was a metal outcropping; Violet was reminded of the sewing machine she'd seen from a shop window in America. The foot petal that kept the needle working over the fabric: aside from that, she'd never seen anything quite so intricate and modern as this device before her.

In demonstration, he stepped on the outcropping and the whole bench tilted backwards, a large sliding panel in the floor opening into the bake house below. If a man had been seated in the chair, he'd have tumbled backwards, smacking headfirst into the stone floor just beneath their feet. Right next to the oven.

Extraordinary.

The man was an enigma.

"For the most part." He muttered, wiping his hands along the sides of his trousers, as if he wasn't aware of his genius. "Mrs. Lovett insists on sewing a small curtain to hang around the underside to hide the mechanisms."

Her mouth was open, and she shut it immediately, hoping he hadn't noticed. How he had even conceived such a devilish, and albeit brilliant, device escaped her.

"That is clever of Eleanor," she allowed, trying to seem unimpressed and failing entirely, "she is lovely that way."

He nodded slowly, not really listening. And within a moment, he was back in that strange world of his, where only he existed. Violet watched him carefully, fascination edging its way into her expression. But then she realized what she was remembering what she was feeling, and bit her lips harshly to pull herself back to reality.

"How is the… gardening progressing?" he asked suddenly, eyes still trained on the chair that had taken up his last few days.

"Oh…" she frowned in thought, how had she completely forgotten? "I have the beginnings of roses and tulips. I've never seen anything so …" she struggled for a moment, hands knotting together, "alive."

He nodded again, and she felt a short jab of disappointment; her proposition had not been as impressive as his. Once again he had bested her without even trying.

"Good."

She felt the urge to sneer at his uncaringly cold words and the feeling that he knew exactly what to say to needle away at her. Nothing of interest or obligation in his voice, only the tired look in his eyes that seemed to grow deeper every moment. But after a moment, her frown melted away.

It was then that she realized the quiet, and was amazed that they had gone this long without hate seeping into their words. But as the silence lengthened to uncomfortable means, so deafening it was that she felt the urge to cover her ears in hope she'd go deaf. Silence allowed thought to enter, and her hands weren't moving to distract her any longer. And soon the memory of the last time they were alone bled into her mind like a virus: the musty smell of his cologne, and the cold feeling of his surprised mouth against her urgent lips...

A sting of guilt and anger whipped through her at the recollection; something that would never fade from her mind as long as she lived. Accompanied by those fresh feelings of longing: for a child, for Nate, for the barber's company against her lonely flesh… And what scared her more, was her longing to feel it once again.

Everything had been ripped from her aching fingers, and she'd never had the chance to indulge in them for longer than a moment.

Indulgence.

It seemed even when Richard wasn't there he persisted in poisoning her mind.

Her hands pressed themselves to her eyes, as if she could slap away the anger; make everything she'd ever done go away. The action had been so harsh that Mister Todd was ripped from his train of thought. He opened his mouth to say something, but before she gave him the chance she muttered,

"Have you ever done anything you regret?"

Sweeney looked up at her in surprise, one of the emotions she'd come to enjoy most about him. Eyebrows lifted a few centimeters and mouth parted slightly; it was amusing to see him so dumbfounded. But at this moment, even that couldn't sway her.

Her question hovered in the air for quite a while, neither daring to look away from the other.

Eventually his lips came back together to form a hard line. He wasn't going to answer, but who was she to ask? His entire life was regret, was it not? What right did she have to question him, when her own past was just as dark and unwelcoming? What he must think of her... the ridiculous annoyance that came with every recollection of her grief ridden features. Shame caused her to drop her hands to her sides. Violet turned to leave, mumbling a quiet, "…Forgive me."

"Johanna."

The florist paused in the doorway, turning at his unexpected words. He wasn't looking at her, eyes glued to the floor. Had she heard wrong?

"… Pardon?"

"My daughter… Johanna." His voice was soft and harsh all at once, it gave her quiet shivers of uneasiness. Something endlessly tragic about his words had affected her so inhumanly it hurt. Slowly, she took a tentative towards him; wanting him to continue as he'd never opened up to her before. She'd wanted a way into his mind, and now she hoped he was giving her an invitation of welcome.

"My dear… little Johanna," he continued," has been locked in that _Judge's _home for so long. Alone. I left her there to rot with him; all those years trapped in those stone walls… I should have been there to prevent that from happening. Should have taken my family away before any of this had happened. And my wife to be so lost that she'd swallow arsenic to escape her life." A hand reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut.

"...And yet, I cannot help but wonder… if she looks like her."

Violet knew immediately who he was referring to. Who else but Lucy? If she had pale glowing skin, or long yellow hair that spilled down her back in waves of sunlight. If she was delicate and pixie-like, with ocean blue eyes that seemed to take in everything at once and find it infinitely sad. Violet herself could almost see the girl, a shadow of her mother, with only inflections of her father.

"I'll reckon she does." She heard herself whisper.

Was it comforting? She couldn't be sure, Violet had always been rubbish at comfort. Funny that she should be the one to ease the Demon Barber into a better mood.

Again he looked up at her with curiosity, an ironic smirk spreading across his thin lips that portrayed his better side perfectly, "You never cease to intrigue me, Miss Blackwell."

A surge of pleasure flowered in her chest at his compliment, but not small enough to realize it to be the first praise he'd ever gifted her with. His mood swings were uncontrollable, and at the same time, one of his best qualities. She smiled at him, lips cracking slightly, "And you barber, never cease to cause me grief."

* * *

_The piano music that filtered through the air was high and cheery, unfamiliar to Isabel, but that only made it more entrancing. She smiled at it, allowing her eyes to flutter shut for a fraction of a second, if only to enjoy it more. Slowly she leaned her head out into the corridor, calculating from which of the dozens of doors the music could be coming from._

_It really was a beautiful estate, she thought, stepping out onto the plush red rug that ran lengthwise down the hallway. The walls were of a dark wood, portraits of unfamiliar family members lined them; unsmiling Turpins' from years past staring down at the florist with something of contempt in their brooding eyes. Was she so wrong to them?_

_No matter how many times Isabel visited, they never seemed to see her welcome._

_She paused in front of one of the bedroom doorways, the entrance hanging open to reveal the source of the bewitching music. _

_Nathaniel sat with his back to her, his fingers stroking the keys of a highly polished Grand Piano, positioned near a large glass window. The rare sunlight that streamed in through the glass lit up his dirty blonde hair that lay uncombed and messy from sleep. He was wearing a gray duster, covering up his night clothes that were surely underneath. How charming he could be without even trying, she thought in amusement._

_Isabel smiled at the scene and how calm it appeared to be. To a stranger, it might have been a Christmas Morning, or perhaps a few days into a Honeymoon, or maybe the day of a child's birth. No one could have guessed it to be the day of a funeral._

_He must have heard her, because suddenly the music stopped, leaving her hanging and leaning on the balls of her feet. He turned on the bench in surprise, and she confirmed the light blue sleepwear that he wore underneath the large coat. He broke into an uneasy smile, "Good morning, Isabel."_

"_Morning…" she mumbled, padding her way awkwardly into his bedroom. It was a comfortable place, with clothes lying about and books stacked in uneven piles around his unmade bed. Her parents would have been horrified of her walking into a man's bedroom in a nightgown; but at the same time it made her smile to know that his mother must hate his general untidiness to begin with._

"_Did you sleep well?"_

_She nodded fervently, "Thank you so much for allowing me and my mother to spend the night. We cannot pay-"_

_He stood up, chuckling a little as he ran a hand through his already messy hair, "Don't do that to me, Isabel; you know me better than to ask for your money. We couldn't have left you in that house with-"_

_His voice cracked at the end of his statement, and he found himself unable to continue. Bewildered, he stared down at his feet, cheeks growing steadily red. Isabel bit her lip, at a loss as to how to comfort him; nothing she could say could blunt the blow of her father's death._

"_Funny," he said, smiling grimly, "you should be the one who mourns and yet I am the one who cannot speak a word…"_

_Miss Redwood struggled to answer him yet again, only able to look at him sadly._

"_Isabel…" he went on, taking slow steps towards her, "Have you ever… Have you ever done anything you regret?"_

_She frowned, walking forward and wrapping her arms around his thin waist, cheek resting against his chest, "…Yes." She whispered, "I have done many things I regret. But why are you asking me this?"_

_He was silent for a long time, even after leaning his cheek against her forehead, breathing in her midnight scent. What could have him so ruffled; as far as she knew, he hadn't been particularly fond of her father. And he definitely resented Nathaniel. But perhaps it was the idea of death that caused him discomfort. She thought he wouldn't answer, so she began to pull away, but felt him only tighten his grip around her waist. And his words spilt so quickly out of his mouth she could barely catch them,_

"_Isabel, please listen to me, I don't know if you will hate me after this but I cannot keep my confession to myself." He took a deep breath, as one might before submerging themselves in water. "Last Tuesday, when you and your mother went to market and your father was at home in his study…still alive… I came and spoke with him."_

_She tried to wrench backwards, but he wouldn't let her, arms like bars against the flesh of her back. What? She hadn't heard of this before._

"_Please believe me when I say that I didn't mean for it to happen. I didn't want him to think any different of me. You see, when I arrived at your home he was already… intoxicated; must have been at least halfway through the bottle on his desk. But I still felt that I should ask him. 'Perhaps even in his state he might understand,' I thought, 'if I asked properly for your hand in marriage." He chuckled lowly, stumbling over his words now._

_Her mind was blank, every word he spoke taking meaning only in a small way. Emotions on the brink of tumbling over as she tried to make sense of his troubling words._

"_He said no, of course, I knew he would. And that was why I brought the pistol, to show him that I was capable of taking care of you." _

_She forced herself away from him, mouth open in horror as what he said seemed to slide into place. This could not be! Hurt flashed across his boyish face; but he continued, his voice raising in pitch._

"_He yelled at me, saying how immature and incapable I was. And…" he pressed his hands to his eyes, as if wishing he could block the whole world out, block out the terrified expression of his fiancé. "And I told him that I could take care of you better than he had. He had this sad sort of look in his eyes… as if he believed me. And before I could stop him… he took the revolver from me and … and Isabel he took his own life!"_

_Nate turned away from her, collapsing onto the piano bench and burying his face in his hands. _

_There was a long and painful silence. Emotions and heat wafted through the air like a noxious gas, knowledge of her fiance's sin had opened a seed inside her heart. One of repentance and sorrow that was far too much to compare to that of her mother's._

"…_I forgive you." She whispered.__The hurt was so fresh in her bones that the words uttered were so painful it caused her to wince._

_He looked up at her in disbelief, his mouth partly open, as if he was sure he'd heard her wrong. "It wasn't your fault Nate…" Isabel knelt at his feet, her hands resting on his thighs as he avoided her eyes at all costs. "It is true that I feel no remorse for my Father's death. And if you hadn't had a gun… I am sure he would have done it in some other fashion. I forgive you, my darling."_

_She hugged him then, burrowing her face in the crook of his neck and breathing in as much of him as she could. Trying to convince herself as much as Nathaniel, and praying that it would work, "I forgive you." _

* * *

Henry was smart.

People perhaps didn't realize it, because he was poor and couldn't feed himself every day. Because he sometimes took shelter in the church alleyway, where he could hide behind his beliefs, and only rarely took strangers pocket money. But he was clever, and saw things regular Londoners on the street wouldn't count as important.

Like the large black carriage tarrying outside of the Turpin estate.

Henry mused at its appearance, readjusting the cap on his head so his red curls wouldn't hang in his eyes. The carriages for the Turpin's were usually a dark brown color, with the family seal embossed on the side door. But this one was much larger and inky black with yellow tassels hanging from the curtains, he could tell, even in the darkness of night.

This could have been a family member, or someone visiting from the Justice Building, but the boy knew better. On this side of London, there was only one place where the business sported black carriages.

As Henry watched, the Beadle pushed open the front door of the house, dragging the girl towards the carriage. Despite the dim gas lamps lighting the walkway, he could tell it was the pretty lady with yellow hair. He'd seen her from the window. But her beauty was marred by her screams of protest as she was forced head first into carriage.

Henry gasped, dropping one of his bibles into the puddle at his feet. What were they going to do with her?

"Let me go!" she shrieked, and he could hear the Beadle's laughter as he slammed the door shut and climbed into the driver's seat. The Judge appeared in the front door, watching grimly as the carriage pulled away from his tall figure and rumbled down the cobblestone road. Henry shrunk at his appearance, hiding himself behind the corner of the building.

_God in Heaven, hear my prayer, don't let him see me._

"_Johanna!" _A boy ran out from somewhere along the street, long blond hair flitting about his handsome face as he dashed after her screams. It was the sailor boy, the one who'd taken mercy on him only this morning; sparing a few cents from his bag. Henry knew, because he never forgot the face of someone who'd shown kindness.

But the sailor was too slow, and settled for the Judge, rage ripping out his throat, "Tell me where you're taking her or I swear I'll-"

"You'd kill me boy! Here I stand!" Turpin spat, spreading his arms at his sides, "Let her ponder her sin of leaving me, for you will never find her! If I cannot marry her, neither shall anyone else in this God Forsaken city!"

The shipmate shook his head in anger and disbelief, leaving the man behind so he could run after the carriage, "Johanna!" he yelled, disappearing down the road. He'd never catch it.

Where were they taking the girl? He watched the Judge saunter back inside the estate, slamming the door behind him. The seafarer was too slow to catch up, and he didn't know the owners of the carriage like Henry. They would hurt her where they were taking her, he knew, and he didn't want the pretty girl to be hurt.

Gritting his teeth in determination, Henry dropped both the bibles into the dirt and chased after the sailor, begging his Father in Heaven to grant him light feet.

* * *

**A/N:**

**Yeah... I'm not too sure how I feel about this chapter. I know not a lot happened, but I think we needed a cool down after the last crazy chapter x]. But i needed to put something up after so long, so this is what you get. I need to answer some questions here that you guys were asking, so please bare with me, kay? :D**

**Reader: "WHY DID IT TAKE YOU SO LONG TO UPDATE, IVORY?"**

**Me: "Well, I hope you'll forgive me for this lame excuse, but I am having to move from my current location. I had to box things up and write this chapter in my spare time, which was far and few between. I should be actually leaving in a week or so, but I will try to write when I can. I swear. :l."  
**

**Reader: How romance-ee is this going to get?  
**

**Me:  Well if you're looking for strictly steamy stuff, this isn't the place to find it, folks. :P. Yes there will DEFINITELY be more romance in the future, I can assure you of that, dear readers. But this fic isn't going to turn into one of THOSE fictions. Mr. Todd is not lovey-dovey and fluffy and cute. He's gritty and dark and his heart is broken. He's not going to fall in love with Violet straight away. And the same with her, although I'm steadily following that path.  
**

**Reader: Do you always write things that are so dark and scary?  
**

**Me: Quite the contrary. Razors and Thorns is the darkest thing Ive ever written. I am a fan of Tim Burton and his works, but no not everything is so bloody and sad. If you'll check out my profile page, you'll see some of the things I love. I'm planning on having a poll when I'm finished with this story so you guys can vote on what I write next :D.  
**

**Anyways, hope this answered some of your questions, and PLEASE review. I really REALLY love to know what you guys are thinking. Even if you think your review would be pointless and not worth your time, please know that it really helps me. I read all of them. And I'll answer ANY PM's that are thrown my way.  
Because, heck, I love you all ;D.  
.ivory.**


	12. Chapter 12: Poor Fools

chapter xii

Poor Fools.

"Could we get some service?!"

"Boy, what about that pie!?"

"Ale, here, please!"

Toby could barely get a word out before the next order was called- waving hands called out to him, looking more like an ocean of flesh than anything else. He kept on his toes, careful not to splash liquor on the men's polished shoes, and get crumbs on the lady's silk skirts. They smiled at him in amusement, for his youth probably; and more than one female commented on his gentlemanly manner. There were so many of them, he thought…

They had seen the fliers that he had put up around town, announcing _Mrs. Lovett's Grand Reopening: The Greatest Pies in London,_ scheduled for this night. Toby had spent an entire day pasting the handmade posters on every street corner he could get to; a determined look in his large brown eyes.

But now the booths as well as the court yard were swelled with hungry bodies that chewed and spat and chewed some more. The poor had been violently shoved aside by the upper crust, taking their seats as they filled up on Eleanor's London Famous Meat Pies. They giggled as they ate, grease smearing their scarlet smiles and ale washing down their burning throats.

These so carefully cultivated facades they had built at dinner parties and Sunday luncheons were broken in Eleanor's Shop. Many thinking that it was still underground enough that no one would notice their disorderly conduct as they fought to devour the fatty meat with their pearly bicuspids.

How amusing these blue-blooded Londoners can be.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Violet looked up in surprise, completely shocked that someone had noticed her in the crowd of munching humans. She had been there since early morning when the rush had begun, her chin placed carefully in her palm as she toyed with the flowers growing around her.

A twenty-something lady stood before her, long brown hair hanging around her well-fed cheeks and elegant button up blouse. Rich, the florist thought. But not too rich, judging by the number of times the dress had been hemmed around her ankles. Seeming so innocent, despite her age and the man hanging off her arm, him looking as if he'd had one drink too many.

"Yes?" Violet questioned, desperately wishing she would just leave. The woman looked a bit nervous to be talking to her; she stretched a tight grin across her face which only made it more uncomfortable for them both.

"I was wondering if… by chance you were selling the flowers?" She spoke softly and shyly. The gentlemen behind her appeared impatient as he gazed longingly back at the tables where a few men were starting a game of chance.

Violet raised an eyebrow, standing to look around at the pots of dirt that held blooming roses and lilacs, daisies and gillyflowers spilling out of the thick brown soil. Their stems were thick and full of energy, almost laughing as they crawled over each other as if they had no idea what made them blush. They'd grown so incredibly fast, even the few measly sprigs of green that Violet bought in town had flourished in the welcoming earth; as if they hadn't lived until they were repositioned by her careful fingers.

"…No." she said firmly, "I'm terribly sorry, but these are not for sale."

The lady frowned in disappointment, eyes casting a sad look over the buds; she seemed to want them badly. But there wasn't a chance she'd give away their secret. The man pulled at his wife's arm like a child, a grin plastered on his face drunkenly, "Look Cybil, this_ lady_ obviously doesn't want to be bothered. How about another pie before we tip off?"

_Lady._ How charming. But before Violet could retort, the inebriate yanked Cybil away to rejoin his mates at the card table where he was greeted with cherry cheeks and loose lips.

This might've been a terrible sort of den the way Eleanor was handing out alcohol, she thought pensively.

The baker herself was chatting to a table of women, her curly auburn hair falling around her shoulders like the tails of writhing snakes. She had purchased an entire new wardrobe with the rush of good business; and now wore a light blue gown with shimmering fabric that cut around her shoulders, allowing only a hint of her figure to outline from underneath. Violet felt it a bit silly, but never would she have said so aloud. Especially with the new dress wrapping itself around her shoulders; enveloping her pale body in a deep gray. Muted colors, she wore, they kept her hidden from dark eyes.

"Oh dear me, Miss Kaylock- oh sorry, _Lady _Kaylock," Nellie was saying jovially to an older woman in a deep purple gown, "it's family secret, love, it'd be breaking Grandmother Agatha's trust t' be giving out the recipe!" she winked, "But if you keep the quiet: It's all in the herbs, dear! All in th' herbs!"

Eleanor and the woman laughed together as she cleaned her plate and promised to be back before the noon bell rang. Violet would have chuckled as well if it hadn't been so foolish; even while she joined in this madness, she knew the sins they committed. God had given them the gift of sin, which only added to the bitter joy this employment offered. But was it not the undoing of innocence that caused Satan himself to fall from Heaven? At this she did laugh, a giggle escaping her lips as the cross around her throat smiled against the rare sun.

The florist had placed the coffins of seedlings around the courtyard of Nellie's shop to 'brighten up the place', as it were. Eleanor had even hung lanterns and birdcages from the ceiling to replicate a feeling of cheer. But you squinted your eyes, and twisted your head to the side; you might have been able to point out the façade of happiness. But in the crowds of shouting and jeering people, it was hardly noticeable.

"Ms. Blackwell!"

Funny, how his bark only seemed to broaden her smile.

He'd tolerated her reasonably well over the past week or so. Most of the time ignoring the florist as she entered the shop or brought him breakfast (as he now took his meals in his room to avoid the crowd); but there was the occasional moment when he would nod at her in thanks. Violet would then leave, without a word between them, and the day would continue normally. Well… as normally as you looked at it. And the joy that flowered in her chest with each passing glance from the killer. Her firm grasp on humanity was slipping at every sunset, but she no longer feared her potential madness; in fact, she reveled in it.

Life, she found, was far more enjoyable when you were deranged.

Turning on the spot, Violet looked up at the barber standing atop the balcony. The same wild black hair that hung around his gaunt face stared down at her shrewdly, one arm resting on the doorway to his shop. Once he saw he'd gained her attention, Mr. Todd leaned back in the shade, almost as if he were afraid of the sun.

Just behind him, she could see the sign that he had put up only a few days ago, declaring in large scarlet letters: _Easy Shaving for a Penny, as Good as you will Find Any._ He wasn't the most literary of men, the florist had to admit with a giggle, but –Heaven Above- was he affective.

Violet waved at him playfully, wriggling her fingers under her chin. It would have been flirtatious, if she hadn't known how much it would annoy him.

Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Sweeney nodded that she join him up on the balcony.

Bobbing her head up and down, the florist scooped up a small vase of roses from her seat and hurried up the wooden steps. She'd wanted to bring a little lovely up to his shop for the longest time; but didn't want to barge into his lair with only that on her mind.

"What is it?" Violet asked airily, pushing her way past him and into the shop.

The smell hit her almost immediately.

The hint of decay and mold, mixed painfully with the rotten taste of blood. The smile that had brightened her lips melted instantaneously at the sight of the old man in the chair. His head tilted back, eyes wide enough to bulge out of their sockets; and scarlet fingers long given up tangling with the smile against his throat. He appeared to have never had life in the first place- never had a soul to animate his aged body; so easily stripped away.

She looked at her feet.

"What do you want?" Violet repeated lowly, setting the vase down on his desk with more force than necessary. The barber didn't answer, and a moment later the florist heard the metal-on-metal grind of the chair tilting backwards to dump its contents into the bake house.

"Where does he live? The Judge. You should know, correct?"

Violet's frown deepened. Had she really forgotten about him in the span of a few hours? True there was no escaping her nightmares, but the day had been so loud it had blocked out all thoughts of her former brother-in-law.

"Why?"

He had the good grace to roll his eyes heavenward, clearly not in the mood for her antics. "Tell me where he lives."

The florist cleared her throat before answering; it had always been there at the back of her mind. Whatever reason he had for this query, she knew it to be a good. "Jefferson and Downing… on the corner of Jefferson and Downing."

He nodded, ripping his jacket away from his body with a hidden frustration; and that was when she noticed the flecks of blood covering his shirtfront. They were few in number, as if he had gotten caught from the front. Her mind drifted once more to the old man in the chair…

"I'd have thought you'd be better by now," she muttered, "You have no aim about you, Barber."

He ignored her completely, collapsing onto the now-empty chair so he could exhale deeply. Now that she looked at him closely, she could see how tired he was. The ever darkening circles beneath his eyes were thicker than ever, one of his main features now. He was thin as well; as if he hadn't bothered to eat lately. The chilled bowl of meal on his desk only proved her suspicions.

"When was the last time you've slept?" Violet asked softly, resting against the wall.

The barber looked up at her in bewilderment, as if he couldn't believe she'd bothered to ask about his health. She was rather surprised herself, but kept her face neutral as she stared at his shoes, unable to meet his gaze. Again he wouldn't answer, eyes closing slightly as a stray thread of black hair ranged across his weary face. Violet almost wanted to toss away that strand to make the picture perfect- well, not perfect, but perhaps less fractured.

He seemed younger with his body so relaxed, face smoothed of brooding folds and mouth relieved of a stressing frown. He looked more like Benjamin than he had in years, she thought…

Once more, she shot at a conversation, "Do you miss…the old days?"

He grunted noncommittally, "You are overly talkative today, Ms. Blackwell."

She sighed at his lack of response, maybe it was the uplifting feeling underneath her dancing, nervous fingers; which was once again beginning to grow at the absence of a body.

"Perhaps…" she said slowly. "I've only been thinking about it… How much we've changed. I mean, I wouldn't have done _this _all those years ago. You were certainly a quiet man back then, a bit naive maybe-"

"I am not Benjamin…" he whispered these words so dangerously quiet Violet could sense the tornado of anger writhing beneath his surface.

Violet raised her brows in alarm, surprised that she had upset him so easily. "I-"

"Do you think that I left for prison by choice? That I abandoned my family out of boredom?!" His eyes shot open and he was on his feet now, taking three long steps towards her shaken figure. Gasping, Violet backed up against the wall, too shocked to feel any sort of anger.

Sweeney's black glare ate up her vision, his lips curled over the yellowed teeth as he leaned – only inches away- from her terrified lips.

"I came back for one reason, and one reason _alone…_" he hissed, sour breath buffeting her porcelain cheeks, "I didn't come back for you, or Mrs. Lovett, or anyone else; not even for your petty vanity, _my dear."_

Vanity?

Is that what he thought of her?

A hysterical laugh of disbelief echoed up Violet's throat as she giggled in front of his demonic glare. It sounded bolder than intended, but it was so incredible she couldn't keep silent. Vain? His own wife had taken her own life and let his infant daughter loose in the world. Wasn't that the very pit of selfishness? His eyebrows shot upwards in surprise as she pressed a hand to her stomach.

"_I am not Benjamin!" _he yowled, grabbing her by the shoulders to shake her slightly; as if to righten her from her maddened state.

At this her laughter ceased, anger taking place somewhere deep within her chest. He was so close; she could have traced all the lines along his face, and the flecks of brown she had never seen before his gaze. Something tasting surprisingly of lust flooded her mouth as she spat her last sentence at him,

"I'm not your Lucy either, _Darling."_

Planting a momentary kiss against his cheek, the florist turned on her heals and left the shop; unbeknownst to Eleanor's shocked brown eyes peeking through the back door.

* * *

_Smack!_

_Isabel felt tears streak from her eyes the harder she tried to hold them back; hands shook at her sides._

"_Don't you dare speak to me that way!" he hissed, alcohol sloshing onto his brown coat as he fought for her dignity._

_The curse that had left her mouth only moments before had left a painful blow of regret- physically and mentally- as the red mark on her cheek began to swell. A coppery taste flooded her mouth as she stared up at her father defiantly, willing the tears to go away._

_She'd yelled at him, told him what a failure he was to his family: to her, to his wife. It was all true, the words she spat with such confidence. Isabel had walked in on him during another of his illnesses, asleep in bed, with a fever rag against his forehead._

_He wasn't sick, not really._

_The bottle of liquor on his bedside table only gave proof to his inebriated state, as did his angry red eyes and yellow skin. The breakfast tray lay untouched at his table, and a puddle of bile at his feet couldn't have been a result of his good health._

"_I don't care what you may think of me!" she said quietly, hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. "You are no father of mine!" he raised his hand to land another blow before the door flew open. Mother stood on the other side of it, brown eyes brimming with tired tears. She was still in her fraying nightgown, feet bare, not fit to be in public- but it looked like she could care less._

"_Isabel… please go."_

_Hurt ran across the daughter's face as Mrs. Redwood slowly made her way inside the foul smelling room. Her mother, who could have been the one to protect her, stand up for her, was ordering her leave. "Just go, darling."_

_Father set the booze on the ground before collapsing back into his bed, which had become his rat nest in a sense. His spectacles snapped on impact. _

_Sobbing, Isabel ran from the office and into the safety of her bedroom, hand pressed against her injured cheek._

_Would no one care?_

* * *

_Darling._

The word tasted funny on his lips. Like some sort of disease.

_Dar_ling…

He watched her go; the brash twist of anger made her blue eyes turn that abhorrent dark color. Did it have a name? He wasn't sure. The burning sensation on his thin lips wasn't helping his temper either. But she left that scarlet bunch on his counter; the ridiculously red petals that almost laughed at the flecks blood staining his jacket.

The last man had caused trouble; had tried to get up from the chair as he grabbed at his spewing adams' apple. He'd had to force him back into the seat, greatly soiling the front of his shirt. Sneering at the memory, the barber threw down the razor so he could run his hand through his tangled black hair.

Fool.

_Darling._

Snorting a little, the Demon Barber searched for something to distract his head. He wandered to the window so he could watch the crowd that crawled over each other like maggots as they fought for their meals. How ignorant they were. Like lambs they came to him; to be liberated before slaughter and fed back to the government with gravy on the side.

As he pondered he caught sight of Eleanor down in the quarry, a frown on her face as she bumped Toby on the shoulder to get his attention. There was something bothering her, something he couldn't see. And was that… tears? No he must be mistaken, Mrs. Lovett was far too proud to cry in public.

And then there was Violet…

The wrathful expression on her face as she stared into space made her seem distant, especially as she was surrounded by those plants of hers. Like Alice straight out of some Hell inspired Wonderland.

Mr. Todd's lip curled as his eyes traced her weary shape…he hated her, hated the feeling of her lips. That angry, selfish kiss made only to spite him… But over the past weeks… he had almost enjoyed her constant presence at the same time. How dark she was. How _irritating._ And though completely the opposite of his Lucy, she seemed familiar in a twisted way.

"_I'm not you're Lucy either, _Darling_."_

Fool! Growling beneath his breath, he flipped the 'Open for Business' sign over with more force than needed. He couldn't deal with anyone else today; especially with his fouled up attire.

Words like those brought back heated memories of her actions that stunt she had pulled almost a month ago now.

That…-he twitched- _kiss._

For the thousandth time he juggled memories in his head. Her cold willing lips forced up to his so unexpectedly he didn't have the choice to turn away, or meet them with the same rotten enthusiasm. It had almost broken him, that action; and that bitter thought that he forced himself to accept:

He had wanted to join in that dance with her -for only a moment- and hatefully would have if she hadn't come back to her senses.

_You foolish, lustful, damnable Darling…_

* * *

**A/N:**

**Hello. :P. **

**I'm back, my lovelies!**

**I'm moved now, sorry for the wait. I'm not too happy with this one. I know not a lot happened in this chapter and it sort of cuts off at the end :P. it was going to be longer- but with the added it would have been entirely TOO long. I'll put it up later. Also, extra EXTRA bonus points if you spot another String of Pearls reference. *wink*. Thank you for all of your reviews and critiques, I do listen and I hope you continue to read and review! They really help me to keep writing.**

**EDIT: got rid of the weird, out of place two second peck on the lips that she did. Hopefully it goes better now :P.**

**More Henry, Jealousy, Todd, and... a picnic? In Sweeney Todd? You must be kidding.**

**Well, I'm not dear readers. *evil grin***

**.ivory.**


	13. Chapter 13: Nice and Proper

**A/N:**

**...*waves timidly***

**It's been a while hasn't it? *uneasy laughter* I could give a hundred excuses as to why I haven't updated for a while. But the truth is, I lost my muse for a while. But I am happy to inform you, dear readers, that I have FINISHED writing Razors and Thorns. All that's left is to update them accordingly :) I have new stories in process that I am excited to share, but one thing at a time.  
****After QUITE A LONG RESPITE, I am happy to give you Lucky Chapter 13 of Razors and Thorns :D. Please leave reviews so that I know you're still there!  
~Ivory **

**Without further ado!**

* * *

chapter xiii

Nice and Proper

It was supposed to have been her birthday.

Eleanor could still remember those cold mornings, waking in the early hours when the sun still slept below the mountains in the distance. Well, not mountains, more like rolling hills that her mother called 'moors'.

_The fog would be thick, and little Nellie would reach her toes out to touch the hard wooden floor, the cold coaxing gooseflesh out of her pale skin. She would already be giggling by the time she cracked open her bedroom door, trying to muffle it with her maroon corkscrews. Wouldn't want to wake Mommy just yet, but Papa would be wide awake, she knew. He was always up before dawn to tend the garden outside. _

_The kitchen was located down the short hallway; it was a modest room, but always smelling of sweets and baked bread. Mother would wake up extra early on Sundays to bring her sweet pies to the market; it was her way of helping Father since all she seemed to do was care for Nellie and her two brothers. Helping her Mummy in the kitchen had always been her favorite pastime. Maybe one day, when she was grown up and married to a handsome man, she would be able to make pies just as well as Mummy._

"_Papa?" Nellie called in a half-whisper._

_No reply._

_Eleanor poked her head around the corner and took a slow exhilarated breath._

_On the hardwood countertop sat a child-size chocolate cake; vanilla icing swirled into rosy designs all along the edges. It was small, barely the size of her two fists put together, with seven ivory candles stuck through the top. There was no mistake; this was her cake, for no one but Eleanor alone._

_With wonder in her brown eyes, Nellie tip-toed across the floor and ran a finger through the delicate icing around the very top. She stuck her finger in her mouth and smiled at the cinnamon and sugar coating. It spread around her tongue and found its way to every taste bud, like lovers meeting and multiplying in roams of light, or the fairies that fluttered outside her window at night._

_Don't want to get caught tasting cake before breakfast, time to find Papa. _

* * *

Have you ever found something from your childhood, something that at one point had been of great value and promise to you? Something that had dreams attached to it, like the clipped strings of a marionette: a diary maybe, or the dulled eyes of a doll?

For Violet, it was the park.

Memories of long summer nights, the heat drawing Violet out-doors with tantalizing fingertips, and she would run for hours. The soft whisper of wind would draw curls out of her dark brown hair, and her cheeks would turn pink from exhilaration. Yellow ribbons of sunlight cast spells on her childish mind, visions of creatures hiding in the brush and invisible playmates dancing with her among the daisies that grew once a year under the tree-tops. But children can make anything look wonderful, and Violet now saw the park for what it had always been.

The grass still wasn't exactly green, with its bristling patches that couldn't be made comfortable to sit on. There weren't many trees as there had been before, but Eleanor was wise to choose a large cracked oak. It's withered and gnarled hands reached down to the three personages, as if enjoying the company. A few couples could be seen milling around, enjoying the temporary sun, the woman shielding the rays with pastel parasols.

All those years ago, Eleanor had picked a good day to be born into this world. A fine day it was, a brief respite from the cold mornings and smoke-filled afternoons. That morning, the baker had burst into Violet's bedroom without knocking, a large grin on her face and a basket in her hand. She had insisted upon an outing to celebrate her birthday: a picnic, in fact. Todd had been waiting outside the doorway with his jacket donned, apparently having been forced into this celebration as much as Violet was. She met him with an empty glance, and he replied with the same. She wished she could slap emotion out of him, most of the time.

But now they sat beneath the oak in silence.

For a moment she had to think back on that word and mull it over in her head: picnic. And a birthday? Were things really this relaxed that they could afford something so casual? Something shared among friends? Friends… were not exactly the term she would have used to describe the three's companionship. Partners maybe, but not exactly comrades…

The sun was a great eye, staring down at the four unsuspecting individuals as they soaked in as much sun as possible. Violet stood above them all, her back arched against the heat. If asked about her curiosity, she'd have said in a quiet, even voice:

"_It's God looking down at us. He knows. Even if these children don't, those people in the basement know all too well the hate in our hearts." _Her eye caught on the barber, eyes pinned on the ground as he shouldered the picnic basket_. "But is hate strong enough to save us… in the end?_

His crooked frown was troubled, and yet distracted at the same time. As if half his brain was on the current situation, and the luckless attempt at celebration, and the other half was caught between murder and a picture frame. Sweeney Todd had completely detached from the world, and the people around him. His brows were creased together, eyes fixed in a thoughtful brood to somewhere in the middle distance; fingers opening and closing in his lap. It seemed that whatever he saw out there in that middle space both saddened and interested him intensely; his legs were crossed in front of him, like some sort of altar boy having had a bad day at his studies.

She studied his thick dark eyes and long slender fingers crossed over each other. He was so endlessly interesting and full of a sinister power that she couldn't put her finger on. Precise and bloodless were his efforts to remain human, more of a monster than a man. How long would it take before too many lives were taken, before he lost himself, before Saint Peter barred the gates to heaven with a flaming sword in one hand, and shouted, _'This place was never meant for the likes of you!'_

'…_or your little whore.'_

Her head fell.

There was a long silence, that neither Barber nor Florist noticed, in which they both stared into something they did not understand. Something they wanted desperately enough to kill for. But without having the nerve to reach out… and take it.

"Toby," Eleanor said quietly, nudging her boy playfully, "why don't you reach in there and grab that platter for me, eh?" Toby smiled up at his surrogate mother, and obeyed, reaching into the wicker basket and withdrew a large cloth-covered platter.

"What's this, M'um?"

"Well no one's gonna know unless you unwrap it, dear." Eleanor smiled gently.

Carefully, almost reverently, Tobias whisked the white cloth away, like a magician revealing the rabbit beneath the hat. What lied beneath was a glistening chocolate cake moist in the humid air, dripping bits of condensation. Four little white candles broke the surface of the icing, beams in a sea of solid chocolate.

Toby gasped in wonderment, brown eyes large and lips pursed. Violet raised her eyebrows slowly; it must have taken quite a bit of coin to afford that cake from the bakery in town square. It was something different from the fancy clothes and jewelry she usually bought for herself; a humble gift that she intended to share with her friends.

There was that word again… 'friends.'

"M'um…" he uttered quietly, as he leaned forward to sample a bit of the icing.

"No, dear, none of that now. Fetch the knife in there and we'll cut ya a slice." Toby backed away and withdrew the shiny butcher blade from the basket. It looked so big in his small hands that Violet immediately felt the urge to swipe it from him before he could cut himself.

The baker distributed generous portions of the spongy desert to each individual, and shamelessly began tearing away at the chocolate. Violet stared down at her slice for a moment, and took a tentative taste. It was better than anything she'd eaten in months, especially counting after Nellie's morning eggs. After it was reduced to crumbs and icing, she threw away the cutlery and used her fingertips to devour the last few morsels.

"Been a while, eh?" Nellie grinned in delight as Violet sat the plate aside, running her tongue over the roof of her mouth. Glancing over, she saw that Mr. T hadn't even touched his slice; it sat looking lonely on his left. Violet doubted he'd even considered eating it.

"As long as you aren't going to eat that…" Violet plucked up the plate and after a moment's thought, split it in half and gave part to the boy, who took it gratefully. She stuck the fork in her mouth and swallowed the chocolate icing, eyeing the barber. He sneered a little, making her swallow a mouthful of laughter to see him so annoyed. Eleanor grinned and ruffled Toby's hair as he finished off the last of the cake.

Violet wished she could always remember how this felt. Right now, in the sunlight, there was a sort of glow in her heart that seemed to be spreading. A glow of happiness in a storm of misfortune. She'd forgotten what it felt like; and the sudden inspiration to jump up and twirl in the sun was almost overwhelming. But the expression on Sweeney' face stayed her leaping feet.

"Well! It's a wonderful day- isn' it?" Eleanor stretched her arms into the sunlight and gave a pleased groan. "It would be nice to get some nice taxidermy animals, don' ya think? Could be part a' my birthday present, eh? That would be nice, I think maybe a boar's head or two. Bring a touch a' gentility to the place, hm? Or maybe a few o' those Christian paintin's! Lovely. I was thinkin' about that last night, how Violet wears that cross an'…"

Funny, how in one simple sentence, that glow of happiness was distinguished.

She kept mumbling to herself, throwing little hopeful glances in the direction of the barber, who grunted every now and then to let her know he was listening. Violet had already tuned her out, thoughts once again drawn to Saint Peter and his angry snarl as he denied them entrance to heaven… She would fall to her knees and explain to him that she only wanted passage to see her husband. He would be behind those pearly gates, and nowhere else. God had forsaken her, but Nate would always accept her; after all, this bloodshed was for him!

Yes they had done wrong, yes their actions were evil, and they remained wicked servants of their own destruction… But if they were not to punish these people… then who would?

"…An' someday, once we've saved up enough, we can leave this dreary place. Move somewhere nice and fresh, eh? By the sea in a big fancy home, just us. …Oh, that'd be wonderful. An' Violet can go back to where she came from, with 'er Mum. We can all live our lives… wouldn't that be nice, dear? …Ms. B, you listenin' to me?"

Richard was just another dog hiding behind his own wiles and lusts. It wasn't right that he should lead these foolish people against themselves, as a sort of punishment for ever being born. It was_ his_ fault they had to chop them up, separate their insides into nice little piles like the pigs they are. It was _Richard's_ fault that they'd become these monsters. To think that she would still be with Nathaniel now, with children perhaps, waking up and living a normal life; never having shed another's blood.

That thought was too much. Her teeth clenched, hands knotted so tightly they were starting to ache; red filled her vision.

Vaguely, Violet wondered how Judge tasted, smothered in gravy.

Eleanor sighed distantly, "You need to relax, dear! It's sunny t'day, a good day! Can't we keep it that way?"

But then again, thought the florist, glaring into the distance and barely hearing Eleanor's begged protests. If Nate hadn't met his death that night all those years ago, she never would have run from London. Never would have left behind her weary mother. Never would have struggled back across the water, to meet these two companions at her elbows.

If Nate hadn't died… she never would have met Sweeney Todd.

And _that _was indeed a distressful thought.

* * *

"Pretty lil' flower you are…."

"Please. Don't touch me!"

"Aw, c'mon, darling… I promise I won't bite…"

"Get your hands off me!"

His fingers snaked up her long legs, hungry old fingers that took pleasure from the cold of her frightened skin. She was so small, he thought, like a little bird that had no idea how lovely she was. It was plus that she wasn't _actually_ mad to begin with; the others, they just panicked when he showed them attention.

"I'll tell the Judge!" Johanna gasped, trying in vain to kick the warden away. Thin shaking arms struggled to protect her face from his rancid breath as Fogg leaned closer. "I'll tell him you've mistreated me!"

"The only qualm he'll have against me is if you're _broken. Damaged. _Fortunately, I'm not a monster… I promise to be _gentle…"_

Henry watched this exchange from the street outside. Disgust turned his mouth into a tight frown, and fear rippled his skin into gooseflesh. He hid behind the carriage, black with gold tassels, and found that he had been right in his assumption of the owner.

Fogg's Asylum was a fortress, the crowning jewel of the punishment system; and Judge Turpin's favorite mode of banishment. It was much easier to cast the accused into a Mad House than by way of the rope, so many disagreements happen that way. Massive grey stones designed Fogg's, lined here and there with barred windows where flea-bitten and ugly hands sometimes poked out into the sour air. It towered into the sky, a wall of black and misfortune, and the quiet cries of the insane echoed into the alleyways, where not even the starving would lay down their heads.

"I have to get her out of there."

Henry looked up at the sailor with admiration, and squeezed his hand. He'd found him a day or so after that terrible night when Johanna was first taken, wandering the streets with that dead look in his eyes. But once Henry had allowed that he knew where she was kept, Antony had chased after the boy like wildfire.

"I cannot believe he locked her in a _mad house._"

Johanna let out a cry of fear, closely followed by the blubbering laughter of Mr. Fogg himself. The sailor started to his feet and ran to the front door, banging and pounding on the wood. Desperate cries of, "Let her go! Leave her be!" echoed from the sobs in his throat. But his protests went unheeded as the warden went about his business with the girl.

Henry grabbed Antony's hand; calm immediately flooded through him, the fight went out of him, and only silent determination remained. He backed away, never once tearing his eyes away from the barred window above, where the cries of his beloved had diminished into cold silence.

"You gotta be quiet, Antony." The beggar boy whispered, pulling him unwillingly back to the shadows. "if you're gonna get Ms. Johanna out, Mr. Fogg can't see ya. He'll know."

Antony's handsome face twisted into a mask of pain and confusion, thoughts darting everywhere for an idea. Suddenly a light found its way into his deep blue eyes, "There is someone who might help… if he still is not angry with me."

"Who is he?"

"Sweeney Todd."

* * *

**A/N:**

**As always, I am grateful to those of you who have stuck around :D. Please review so that I know you're still there! Be prepared for the next chapter coming sometime next week!**

**~Ivory**


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